


Heed the Sheep Head

by allthingsunrelated



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul: Re - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe- no ghouls, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Chronic Illness, Drug Use, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Freeform, Gambling, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Graphic Violence, Hallucinations, Misgendering, Other, Physical Abuse, Racism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Serial Killers, Slice of Life, Slurs, Terrible Grammar, Torture, alcohol use, gender neutral suzuya, gender roles in the 1900s, nonsensical language, original the character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthingsunrelated/pseuds/allthingsunrelated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU set in England in the mid-nineteen hundreds.<br/>Mutsuki Tooru lives under his brother's name while he cohabitates with a team of investigators and night watchmen who are working to catch a serial killer who has a distinct taste in victims.  Meanwhile Mutsuki's extended family is suspicious of him and are determined to uncover his secrets and upend his sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. perfume soaked stationary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aradian_nights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aradian_nights/gifts).



> I don't know how this thing evolved into what it is. Please be gentle with me.

All things have an order. Order like an accumulation of events, a pack of cards going clockwise around a circle. Everyone is born into discord with not a thing besides nakedness, a placenta, and a mother- if they're lucky.

Society is couched at a card table. It's simple judgment in rigid black and white. A body either takes the winnings or looses their fortune. Sometimes folding is the most noble option. Living is a hand dealt but if someone bluffs the rules can be broken.

 

Mutsuki stands in the doorway. His eye slides towards Urie who is seated comfortably against the wall, newspaper censoring his face. Sasaki wrenches a cast iron skillet from Shirazu- a coup de gräce in the most courteous way possible and ushers him to seat himself at the table.

Shirazu wrinkles his nose indignantly, turning his coffee cup’s handle in small rotations until satisfied with its position. He is unremarkably sober this morning leading Mutsuki to wonder if he really wanted to pursue cooking something other than blackened remnants of egg. He meets Mutsuki’s gaze and fosters something that looks sincerely like a crooked grin but it is lost in pragmatism.

To no surprise does Urie even offer cursory eye contact, but instead straightens the paper in a very aged and bitter fashion that resembles a four-flush, though he would have you believe its more than skin deep. When the mornings rituals are complete, he will sulk off to busy himself with dignified tasks that hone his dapper mask he puts on when women desire to prattle.

Wielding a smile that is warm and strong like the coffee he brews, Sasaki embodies something stolen from Tooru, something that if it was tangible would be winding yards of fine linens and silk wrapped around Mutsuki’s body. Safe temperate material, mirroring his own expressions and cautious remarks.

For as inviting as Haise may been, Mutsuki knows he can bind and choke in a moment- moonstruck incarnated in both definitions. He saw those moments in flesh, for it was Mutsuki’s flesh that had been torn to bleeding and it was Sasaki who lost himself on the bullies without repeal before the head master in preparatory school. He grinned wryly through the bruise that paled in equality to the boys who noses bleed like a noble’s garden fountain.

Mutsuki’s smile echoes what Sasaki wears, just his own face is not nearly as hollow or pallor in comparison. He sets a cup of coffee at an empty seat, entreating Mutsuki to sit while refilling Urie’s cup like the brilliant counterintelligence that he is. Urie turns a page and clears his throat to say nothing. Mutsuki dolefully reads the headline in bold capitalization: **'ANOTHER BODY FOUND'** and wonders if Urie and Shirazu will meander the streets tonight.

　

Mutsuki has always lived under the impression that each person has their own reality, and no person’s realities are alike because of the unique circumstances the individuals face bend and mold them throughout their lives. In his own case, Mutsuki was living a comfortable reality that was never his to procure, and had been for many years.

So when Urie finished his last cup of coffee, before excusing himself from the table he lazily and rather precariously flipped an envelope in front of Mutsuki, who was taking a drink.

"What is it?" Coffee rippled under the force of his breath before he lowered his cup and retrieved the envelope, turning it round to read the fine printing. It was addressed to him. Urie breaks his congenital silence to deadpan.

"It’s a letter (use that forsaking eye of yours)."

 _After you dip a quill in ink you can either bring it over parchment to create bold sweeping letters or you can press the quill harshly into the paper, and let the ink pool up and run in rorschach blots_.

Mutsuki felt the pen puncture his skin and the ink bleed into every stitch.

He ran a finger under the elastic of his eye patch, relieved the loquacious Sasaki and Shirazu had retired upstairs for the time being.

"So it is…" Mutsuki folds it with enough force to kill it, tucking the halved letter into his pocket. Urie eyed him wearily while tentatively organizing his newspaper back into former order and swiftly exited the room.

In the interim after breakfast and dinner Mutsuki scoured through countless books occupying the floor to ceiling shelves in the study out of pure depression. The sunlight had long lost to the prevalence of overcast clouds and a light rain, dulling atmosphere of room significantly.

Mutsuki strained through another table of contents making a noise buffered between a chuckle and groan of despair. He flipped over to lay supine on the study floor. His elbows had grown increasingly sore due to the texture of the rug but soon it was forgotten when his hands splayed across his chest.

 _What am I even looking for? There is no counsel in these books for my predicament_.

The uncomfortable tightness in the core of his body had a bracing effect against the hard cloth and wire modification holding himself together. Used to the gouging of underwire and tickle of threaded lace, the corset binding him was barely distinguishable from his own body. It felt like it had grown into his skin and became an organ of its own, giving him a life that he so very much longed for.

The ode of heavier rain overtook Mutsuki’s thoughts and the content of the letter surfaced back into his mind. Unlike his own family whose members were all very deceased, Mutsuki’s wealthy widowed Aunt on his fathers side was not. Though reaching an age correlated with declining health, she still found a means to meddle with family affairs and invited herself to the estate for a ‘cordial’ visit in person after roughly ten years of only exchanging perfume soaked stationary.

This event was no more troublesome than procuring an empty room for a few nights retreat to comfort, however it would be rather tasking to maintain the illusion Mutsuki has established. Living under his brother’s title and inheritance was a responsibility he awarded himself as the last remaining person of his family. An alias he nurtured since he’d been enrolled in preparatory school. None of his housemates saw through his façade- as far as he knew.

As it was, he’d embellished his letters. Fraught with high-hat banter, education that refined his nobleman tastes, Help that never allowed dust touch the velvet of curtains and- Mutsuki truly regrets this lie- a beautiful fiancé of several years.

Oh yes. Tooru would of been wise to let his brothers name die along with him.

"You’re going out with us, yes?"

The difference between sending a silver tray crashing to the floor and Sasaki’s spontaneous appearance is- well, there is none. Indistinguishable.

Mutsuki lurched forward onto his feet with a start, but was immediately wracked with a head spin so powerful that he instantly crumbled to his knees.

"Ah! Forgive me, I didn’t mea-" Sasaki started, gripping Mutsuki’s thin arm and hoisting him onto the chaise lounge a few feet away. "Oh my, your as white as a sheet! Perhaps you should stay in this evening."

"Um," Mutsuki breathed much too quickly, his sight returning in pointillist waves. " ‘m perfectly fine."

"Horsefeathers! You look absolutely ghostly."

Sasaki had yet to unglue himself from Mutsuki’s arm. Hand warm and solid like the crease of worry in his brow.

"Just sat up to quick is all. I swear." Mutsuki did his best to balance a smile, only to have Sasaki frown at him momentarily before turning down the hall.

"Next time you loose your head make sure you don’t find the corner desk with it or we’ll ‘ave a _bloody_ mess."

Mutsuki scoffs, absently smoothing out his shirt and following after him.


	2. anodyne for the soul

Apparently Urie and Shirazu left off earlier after a light supper.

"Which you really should be kicking yourself over," Sasaki berates. "Come to think of it, you missed dinner--"

"I'm sorry," Mutsuki interjects, adjusting his pace to lead ahead slightly. The streets are scarred with runoff from the rain, appearing as snakeskin complemented by the gray skies.

"I've not been very cordial these days, all I seem to do is hold up in the Study and scrounge 'round in piles of fancy signatures."

Sasaki snugs his hands into his frock overcoat pockets, noting how Mutsuki's choice of word becomes unpolished the more frustrated he is.

"I don't see how Father did it. He never even touched the brandy in the desk. These affairs and bogus chivalry will turn me inside out 'fore its done."

Mutsuki pauses. "And what's so -agitating, is that I'm off acting as this well-to-do son of Lorde, and I've left you with the run of the house and the dirty work. That doesn't please me at'll."

 _And I have nothing to offer you in return for all your investment_.

Mutsuki's thin lipped smile is both apologetic and thoughtful-- executed with control to keep the corners of his mouth from skewing into something portraying regret.

Water casts off of Sasaki's boots with each step. The rain is persistent, Mutsuki can feel the cold drops soak through his hair and to his scalp, trailing down his forehead with gravity.

The pause is not nearly as awkward as he thought it would, though rather unexpected considering Sasaki's talent of proactively floating any miscommunications that the rest of the party might abandon.

Mutsuki touches his knuckle to his lip.

_Maybe I was to forward..._

Just as he turned to apologize for his behavior, Sasaki is practically atop him, stealing away his limb and snugly linking their arms together in that overly theatrical way of his.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're feeling a bit more than under the weather-" Sasaki pauses to blink a drop of rain out of his eye while Mutsuki represses a sigh. "- about this whole... goings on and whatnot."

_Such a way with words..._

The firmness of Sasaki's arm locked with his own is invasive, yet delivers him an emotion that's comforting as it is rewarding and queerly strikes them both quiet for several seconds.

"You know," Sasaki supplements, shaking a bit of rain from his hair. " I believe I'd have next to nothing, if not for you or your circumstances. What I do in my spare time is not out of duty or guilt,"

The rain is falling lazily in large drops, repelled by nothing and clinging to eyelashes like the balmy air trapped by the clouds.

"Its what I'd do for my family." Sasaki says confidently.

Mutsuki's heel slips on a cobblestone but recovers with little delay. He meets Haise's bemused expression with a wide eye before his most genuine smile overtakes his embarrassment.

"T-thank you for your company," Mutsuki picks at the hem of his sleeve with free hand. "For all of these years."

 _Thank you for protecting me._ Its what he includes internally.

_Thank you for caring._

_Thank you for being naïve._

"You don't act like the wealthy man that you are. You should be more..." Sasaki waves his right arm around, searching the air for a definition. "...well, egotistical. And rakish. Debonair, with a officer's sword attached at your hip."

"If you think that's how I should act, I'd be a fool not to start now and cut you down." Mutsuki jested, tactfully unhitching his arm from Sasaki and making a dash ahead towards a lone pub on the corner of the street.

Its warm hued lanterns melting through the windows and out into the rainwater collected on the cobblestones, creating a dazzling effect that wilted the surrounding shops and apartments.

He waited under the covered alcove by the pub's doors, tugging off his gloves and shaking the rain from his coat and hair. As finishing touch -once he caught up- Sasaki ran his spread fingers through Mutsuki's hair, slicking the whole mess of it back in a crude fashion.

"Delightful. Now you're ready to begin the decapitations."

 

The events following the next few days lacked any excitement.

Rain streaked windows greeted them every morning and kerosene lanterns accompanied them constantly as navigating the darkness of the manor without light was practically a game of roulette. Most of the manor was out of use, dust laid and eerie. Since Mutsuki inherited the estate he had neglected hiring 'servants'-- a term he didn't care using seeing as the people his parents employed before the better portion of his life meant more, more like family and over time many retired due to age and those who choose permanency to up-keep the manor had passed away.

Emptiness surrounding Mutsuki was dreadful proposition, so after befriending Haise as a youth and his acquaintances in grammar school, Mutsuki set forth the notion that they live together. After college, they all collaborated under one roof. A bachelor retreat of sorts.

Mutsuki shifts in bed. His spine is suddenly seized by a pain so loathsome, that he wakes immediately. The sensation is like white-hot spires piercing through the small of his back. Twisting into flesh so sensitive- tender like a cut of meat. Cursing, he dresses quickly doing his best to ignore the feeling of impalement and makes way to the kitchen with a limp.

Thankfully Sasaki is elsewhere on this occasion. Mutsuki finds the wood stove still warm from the last logs. Rekindling it, he sets the kettle upon the top and meanders to a cupboard. Rarely is he tortured with pain of this nature, so it is even more rare than he remedies it with drugs of any sort.

Organizing through an assortment of miniature glass capped bottles like a game of chess, the anodyne is found he takes a dose of it, bitter and numbing. Pouring the now hot water into a copper flask and enclosing it in a thick cloth, he retires to his father's study. Mutsuki thumbs through old envelopes on the monstrous oak desk, gathering up a portion he settles on his stomach and sorts the mail in by lamplight. Unintentionally he falls asleep on the angora rug with the wrapped flask under his robe on the lower portion of his back.

_There it is. That look. Those judgmental eyes. I didn't do a damned thing, so don't look at me with those hot coals. They act like hosiery cannot be washed. Mine is torn, stippled with holes from a struggle. Incredulously I am stared at, women with wan faces and white hoods and Mary's eyes. I am a child and I can see contradiction. Violet rosaries in tight fists, look like the ruptured blood vessels on my legs. Don't pretend my skin is too dark to see those marks on them. All they see is a stigma and I'm punished for it ruining my stocking in an unladylike manner. Mother will understand the unfairness of it all, she is strong against society and raining insults. Her cappagh brown hands will take mine and recite tales like melodies and I'll fall asleep._

_I'll remind myself aloud of her strength while the cortége lowers her and Father into the earth. That same look descends upon me again, closing around me like a noose but I am quick and a savior of a different kind will remove me. Brother knows the same melodies as mother did. He has the same complexion and intelligence. He will take care of me until summoned for duty by this country that persecuted us all with the same breath. His letters are yellowed and worn like his hand-me-downs I wear. He will savor the moments back on land, the letters say. I can almost feel the ship breaking waves under my feet. The letters say he's lost something to the war. I reflect on these, unfolding that parchment everyday he doesn't write again. Committed to my memory more that the education I am receiving because of Brother's smooth talking and the Queen's good name. Letters have ceased for years, and I am without blood relation is this place. On the edge of being helpless to the grip of saints who would force me into steel hoops with charity painted on my face._

_Their hands are so cold, shaking with rage and they scream at me with contempt for being born, for being mixed of blood and for rebelling- a sin I'll be punished for by God but since I'm not dead they'll see to it my flesh is peeled back and I'll have my writs sliced in holy stigmata. One will step foreword with angelic eyes and mummified hands with inches for nails charred on a hot stove. Moving close to me as it runs a claw into my opened wrist, they'll shriek into my ear--_

"Mutsuki!!"

His eye flitted open, sticky and drugged. Sasaki's blurred countenance is above him with wide eyes. Mutsuki has forgotten where he is and takes a moment to search the room. He finds his wrists have been restrained, one arm held alongside his torso, the other in Sasaki's hand, finger on his pulse.

"Mm, Haise..." Mutsuki mumbles in recognition. Sasaki promptly releases his wrist and his face melts into a familiar smile. The lantern's flame gutters, Mutsuki denies the proximity between them could possibly be dwindling. He's too sedated to ponder it much less have depth perception.

"Thank God, I thought the worst. You were twitching about and muttering something awful." Sasaki exhales.

Mutsuki's head is heavy and so is Sasaki's hand on his shoulder. Come to think of it, Sasaki's gaze is weighted too, ineluctable and almost unbearable.

Then he is uncomfortably close again, tilting Mutsuki's chin at an angle before gently manipulating his left eyelid. Mutsuki holds his breath, feeling passive and too weak to protest.

"Your pupils are constricted, did you take _that_ medicine again?" He asks not expecting an answer, shifting away slightly and examining Mutsuki's face. "Its no surprise- you look like death."

"Its okay, 'm okay." Mutsuki drawls thickly, his mouth was dry but nausea has turned it hot with saliva. He swallows painfully, struggling to ward off the spasms in his diaphragm.

"I think you may have a fever." Ridiculously cold hand on him again. Mutsuki tilts his head away quickly, sharp pain exploding in the back of his skull. He ignores it the best he can and attempts to right himself, forcing Sasaki to move aside.

" 'm sorry I worried you." Mutsuki words muffled by his palms. He slid his gaze up to meet Sasaki, who was now at a respectable distance and still looking rather nonplussed.

He didn't speak, but instead assisted Mutsuki to his quarters and vanished.

He felt a second away from dissolving into the plush of his mattress. His mind floating in the bubbling ocean of consciousness, nausea hounding him when he closed his eyes.

_Any day now, this will unravel and I will be naked amongst my lies._

Steady pulse behind his eyeballs.

_And they'll take me away to that place and I'll live under medication and in restraints._

"You feeling any better?" Sasaki was suddenly beside Mutsuki's bed, a silver tray balanced on five fingers. Mutsuki didn't have to say anything apparently, his decayed expression spoke for him.

"I'm leaving this here, drink it 'n you'll come around."

Mutsuki tracked his back until he turned the corner. After a bit, he shakily accepted a warm teacup filled with, some obscure tea and took a sip.

At least his back didn't irk him anymore.

 


	3. buckshot in salt

 

Discovering Mutsuki's room vacant the next day, Sasaki conducted a search of the estate although he had a inclination of where he had escaped to.

Creatures and their habits.

 

The Study's door was ajar and the acoustics of the hallway allowed him to hear the goings on inside.

"Eh? Ridiculous! You're cheating me, aren't you?" Mutsuki sounds defeated. The leather of his chair squeaks and Sasaki imagines he's slouched into it.

"The cards don't lie~" a candied voice coos in reply. Undoubtedly Saiko.

"The cards? No. You? That's the true mystery because I wager you're too sly to be caught."

"Do you really want t' gamble on that assumption?"

 

Sasaki shoulders the door frame patiently. Saiko is practically standing in her chair while scooping a pile of bonbons into her gown.

"Why not? You've already raided the bulk of--" Mutsuki spies him, a blush crawling up his cheeks and forehead.

Probably either from the shame of losing at cards, the pot consisting of the bonbons Sasaki brought him back from France or Saiko's state of dress- rather undress.

He doesn't see a reason why Mutsuki should feel any second hand embarrassment about that.

"Up to your neck in wins, I see." Sasaki shifts his weight onto his other leg.

"Sasaki?! I thought I heard dainty feet shuffling about." Saiko whips around, her gown drawn up to carry her bounty. Not perturbed at all of showcasing her drawers and like wise, no one is really shocked when she chooses to do so.

"Its been a long bit, has it not? Did you just return from the investigation?" He inquired.

"Sure. Hounds lead the party all the way down the river." Saiko sat with crossed legs. "We disbanded after the trail went cold... Even the dogs were tired after that mess."

Another missing persons unfound. Sasaki reflects the somber look on Saiko's face, a distinct silence overtakes the room, born of the injustice of it all, more so than in grieving.

Mutsuki see this as an appropriate time to slip out of his chair and make for the door.

"Where will you be snooping at now?" Sasaki asks her, giving Mutsuki a curious glace in passing.

"Well, you know, probably serving at the pub. All sorts of information sulking about in places like that." Saiko gestures vaguely with her hand, the other still holding onto her gown.

Sasaki nods, gaze fixed to a decorative rug. Surely there are no people like _that_ in their town?

"You should come by sometime. I'll play a game of draught with you." Saiko's eyes glisten as she makes the proposition.

"Do I look like a fool?" He jokes, but becoming increasingly self conscious as Saiko unwaveringly stares back at him with her dichromatic eyes.

"I'll play you once I give Mut another shot at a poker game."

"What did Mutsuki owe the pleasure of being humiliated anyways?" He digressed.

"He proposed. I'll only consider engagement under the condition he beats me in a hand." Saiko sighed out, fiddling with the pack of cards on the desk nonschelontly.

And at that moment Sasaki certainly did look like a fool.

　

The stroll to the pub is quieter than the inside of a casket. Sasaki is thankful the rain's clemency buffers the edge off the stretched and clumsy silence, even if it the drops were a tad too cold for is taste.

Sasaki wonders if his mind has been raptured for all this time, not discerning Saiko's and Mutsuki's relationship was anything of greater intensity than sibling-like affections.

He works his jaw, glancing at Mutsuki indirectly. He'd been exhibiting strange behavior as of late, and it was unsettling.

Inside the Pub, the air is still stale from the vacancy of the better half of the day. The glowing orbs dangling above the bar reflect on the wood counters, shined by hundreds of callous palms and clothed elbows.

Tables empty adorn their chairs upside down towards the back of the pub, where a woodstove is crackling and slowly the sent of yesterdays ash is replaced by fresh logs of douglas fir.

There are not many patrons seated, spare a couple on stools at the far side of the bar and an elderly man by the window. When empty of people, the stone stacked walls mislead one to believe the foyer is larger than its actual dimensions. Mutsuki absorbs the familiarity of it all.

 

"Good pissing grief!"

Mutsuki twists his head towards the nearest large card table with barrel slotted chairs with fancy leather backs. In two chairs by the hoary glass window sit Shirazu and Urie, across from one another in traditional placement.

The solid oak table serving as a blood brain barrier of sorts, a poor one at that because when Urie glances at Sasaki, his face is contorted with disgust and his lips part as if he wants to say something but instead he frowns into the book he's holding.

It becomes evident why. Shirazu is fidgeting a Havana cigar between his pointer and thumb. The aroma of the smoke is potent, irritating Mutsuki's eye.

For no particular occasion he smokes. Shirazu boasts to enjoy cigars, but likely its his own catty contumacious way to displease Urie.

"Ya two look'n like you've been captured and water beleaguered!" Shirazu says a bit louder than normal. Mutsuki can tell he's on his third pint-the least- from the strong smell of ale, and the benevolent grin pasted on his face.

"You mean _water boarded_ (you backwards arse)," Urie grinds out, his gloved fingers tense on the spine of his book. "You're less charming drunk, than your normal devoid of sense blackwater personality."

"Ah, he admits 'm charming!"

"I'll admit the hearsay about your _dropping out,_ " Urie says with fixation. "Causes aren't a cracked skull, but your dyed-in-the-wool good-for-nothing brain."

Sasaki appropriates the seat besides Shirazu and slings his arm over his lax shoulder, who seems unaffected by the hard glare Urie attempts to brand into his cheek. He won't look at Mutsuki, who timidly sits next to him, clearing his throat to defuse the situation but luckily, Sasaki chimes in first.

"We can't all hold to your standard of perfection. Hell, what sort of disembodied lives would we lead pleasing you?" Sasaki plants his elbows on the table, winking at Mutsuki and smiling courtly.

"...Disembodied indeed." Urie connoted, unable to look at Sasaki for some reason- Mutsuki wonders if its relative to humiliation.

Shirazu brought it upon himself to continue the conversation, mostly directed at Sasaki- who is most responsive to his banter. Mutsuki listens in earnest for a few brief moments, fiddling with his cufflink and watching the cigar's smoke ripple through the air.

For a transient spell he fixates on the purls of smoke twisting like a braid, climbing to the rafters and eventually fading into nothing.

His thoughts kick sand into his eyes, digging into his anxiety and releasing those thoughts into the white space of his mind.

No mail has arrived for him in the past week, no word form his Aunt with muddy intentions, which was one less weight on his shoulders, but he couldn't shake the sensation of rope around his neck. It was intuition that warned him, ingrained into his nature after experiencing an onslaught of unfortunate circumstances. one after another, again and again and once more for the home stretch.

She was hunting for something. Perhaps the truth.

"Twit was smuggling a sheep head! Stuck it right up'n his sweater. Didn't hafta string him t' find the sorry mutt the gamin was feed'n." Shirazu laughed in low pitch that dragged Mutsuki back into the conversation.

"You let him go after that?" Sasaki inquired, setting his drink in the tabletop and sliding a second one to Mutsuki who hadn't even noticed is absence. He eyed the pint of sweating ale, his stomach turning with images of skinless sheep heads with marbled eyes.

He cleared his throat.

"Of course Shirazu escorted the wretch back to the slaughterhouse to confess his crime, but nothing became of it." Urie added on for closure and promptly turned mutinous. "For the love o'god put that stinking thing out!"

"Ey, mind your own!"Shirazu pointed the Havana directly at Urie, half burned with the ashes still attached. Mutsuki recalls hearing that was typical of quality cigars. His brother told him, if he recalled correctly. Abandoning that memory he accepts his drink, sealing his lips in the edge of the glass.

" _Mind my own_?" Urie repeats with a pinched expression, his book flattened page down on the table. "(How about you use your mind?) Every person is a ten foot radius has no choice but to smell that noxious blunt!"

"You both are positively thrilling. How is it you two patrol together-- much less function as a cohesive unit-- is beyond me." Sasaki sets his glass down, resting his chin on his hand.

Shirazu is a tad too plastered to pick up the subtlety of the remark but he does extinguish his cigar in his empty glass, eyes begrudgingly settled on Urie's and all Urie can ignite is a withering glare that holds little charge.

"S'not that crimes unimportant, jus' some of its folly. We're afta the one's a slay'n- not filch'n." Shirazu tacks onto the subject, looking downcast at the cigar he murdered in his glass. Urie has regained complete control of his emotions again, quiet and tense.

Looking through the distortion of the pint glass Mutsuki sees Sasaki is watching him-not so very discretely-from under the coarseness of his irrationally gray hair, like brushed iron and buckshot in salt.

Mutsuki sets the emptied glass aside and pushes his chair back with an abrasive noise. Excusing himself from the table, Mutsuki primly adjusts his waistcoat and bags the marbles rolling loose in his skull.

"Where you offta?" Shirazu asks, joining along with Sasaki at observing Mutsuki, who was trying his damnedest to stand straight. His body was warm and fuzzy, but he felt very sane- which was in his good fortune he thought, turning on his heels to face his companions.

"I'm off to play a game."

 


	4. breathe the burning cloves

 

The narrow hall had little in the way of head clearance but Mutsuki managed well, navigating the stone stairs leading to the basement. He rapped upon the door, which opened a sliver in reply. He scrounged in his pockets, offering up his papers to the rather burly gentleman on the other side.

Granted access into the room was like entering into underground sewers, except a bit classier in airs. Mirrors lined the far side's walls, making good use of the limited lighting and moreover tricking the brain into believing the basement was larger.

It didn't breath any better that the upstairs pub, thick with tobacco smoke, drunken exhaust and a pungent sent he didn't quite recognize. Mutsuki ears filled with the chatter of several people scattered about, most at a small bar serving mostly hard to find liquors and the rest deposited at various gambling tables.

_Disgusting disgusting disgusting wretchedly utterly disgusting._

Mutsuki weaved his way through elbows and smoke, advancing upon a round table towards the back with a familiar face.

"Mut! S'glad you could came!" Saiko practically yelled, standing to her full height in elation, Mutsuki supposed- but now that he was close he could see she had defiantly drank as much as Shirazu, if not more- reading her cherry cheeks and nose under her smiling eyes.

Mutsuki put forth his most convincing persona. "Of course. We did make a deal."

He took her outstretched hand and politely kissed it before settling into a rather uncomfortable chair. She grinned again, producing a pack from the front of her frilled dress and shuffling the cards with a dexterity Mutsuki has never known.

Saiko's dainty hands flex and arch, and the cards purr to her in return. Agile and quick, like her eyes, scanning the room for reasons unknown before her attention is back on Mutsuki. She slaps the pack in front of him.

"Cut." She almost commands, her chest out and eyes hooded. Mutsuki does so, his train of thought derailed by her bosom. Attractive? Certainly, but what society enforces the idea drawers are to be loose and hidden under a dress from prying eyes, whist the cut of the neck leaves a lady's breasts in full view?

Mutsuki continues to stare on resting elbows. She halves the pack once more, the cards shuffle back together, sounding like tearing cloth or burlap. She deals the cards with the flick of her wrist then motions with one hand to someone behind Mutsuki. A glistening pint of ale is set within reach and Saiko is holding a rim shot of some clear liquid, offering it out in a toast.

"May the winner live happily ever after." She fights to pronounce each syllable. Mutsuki lifts his pint in agreement, and drinks. Its cold and stout in an earthy way, and after several large quaffs he finds it potent enough to discourage him from becoming paranoid about having his back turned to a room bustling with wretches.

Feeling particularly warm and confident, he scoops up his cards and the game begins. Mutsuki evaluates his hand. Its fair, he stares with blank expression into the printed eyes of matching king and queen of spades. Luck may have sided with him after all.

The blind is more than chips, but a spoken agreement Mutsuki requested of Saiko earlier in the week. It so happened that the night before she returned to the manor, Mutsuki had another nightmare filled with torturous memories, burning hair like incense and the white painted walls of asylum. The anxiety installed from these completely rational fears had him backed into a corner of his brain where his only option to survive was to gamble or cheat his way out.

 _'How'd you like to play house?'_ _Mutsuki had asked from his father's chair, tenting his fingers. Saiko arched an eyebrow and coyly smiled._

Not that he wanted to become a conniving bastard, in fact, it wasn't even in his nature but it there was a learned cunning he knew well of that his brother possessed. What would be the point of assimilating into his shoes without the willingness to uphold his brothers character?

Saiko bet a stack of chips, her face half hidden behind her spread, particularly serious looking in comparison to her personality. She was having a great deal of fun with this.

Mutsuki remembered how droll her reaction was to his bribery. She didn't owe him anything, hell- she didn't even live at the manor in permanency. She was too preoccupied with her job as a wall flower, ears keen and always listening. But she still allowed him the opportunity.

Mutsuki calls her bet, sloppily pushing what seems to be an equal amount of chips to the center. His vision begins to double but he blinks out of it, he's got to pull it together. Expression blank, back straight and feet planted firmly onto the hard floor.

She has yet to slip up, eyeing him carefully. Saiko lights a small rolled paper, exhaling a ring of white smoke before adding more chips to the pot, fingers dragging along the table. Mutsuki knows he is starting to sweat.

"You are keen on the fact," She hits the paper again, blowing a ring at Mutsuki and offering it to him. "That m' not sick with a dozen roses, yeah?"

"Never said that was criteria. I just need you in the manor for tea. Think of it as a game." He manages to speak coherently, taking the smoldering paper from Saiko and raises and eyebrow in question.

"Tis a fancy thing I picked up." She replied, leaning back. "They called it a _cigarette_."

Mutsuki takes a puff, spiced and smooth and a distinct flavor lingers on his tongue.

And he's feeling pretty damn good, floating on the ale and bluffing Saiko- until he's aware a small crowd of intrigue has gathered about their table.

The observes are all in various stages of intoxication, swaying and breathing out fire, their swinish eyes trained on the game. Maybe because he himself was rather drunk and it was a trick of the brain, but he could of sworn he saw a child moving about the cluster.

Saiko doesn't seem distracted by them but Mutsuki shrinks into his chair ever so slowly and swallows.

"Hit it again." She encourages, passing the cigarette to Mutsuki and he does. He takes a powerful drag, sends it right into his lungs and exhales a cough less cloud.

_Ignore them. They're not looking at you so jus' ignore them. They don't exist- ignore them._

He reminds himself, his digits twisting the fabric of his waistcoat. A sensation unlike alcohol sweeps his body and the suits in his hand become fuzzy.

Saiko is blurred too, smoke billows from her mouth like a dragon. The windowless basement turns into a dungeon, mutilated bodied swing form rusting hooks and their dead, hallowed faces exhume his sanity.

Chair legs scrape close by and Mutsuki's gaze drifts towards the sound. There _is_ a child among them- small, dark in the corner and void of eyes, just weeping ribbons of wet blood.

Mutsuki looses all sense of equilibrium briefly, swiveling around in his seat so quickly his head spins. He's losing his grip. Saiko says something but it doesn't quite reach his ears.

The air is now dense and he can see every particle in the haze. His brain thwarts his logic, he is going to suffocate in this- this place. This is a grave filled with demons.

Saiko is unrecognizable in the mist of burning cloves. Mutsuki's mouth is filled with cotton.

"I- where's Haise?" his voice thin and hoarse.

He's holding tarot cards in his hands now, and Death is remarkably vivid.

He drops them face up, numerals gouging into his eye. He pushes away from the table, and dives into the crowd, fighting through the tangle on flimsy legs. Mutsuki can feel putrid breath on his neck and hands groping at his flesh like hot brands hissing so close to his skin.

"Mut?" Someone calls. He's too fevered to respond, shouldering a solid body and almost toppling over. His clothes snagging on white corpse limbs is what he sees, driving him to the mausoleum door.

He looks up toward the light, a thousand steps descending into the heavens and his heart is slamming like window shutters. Mutsuki's stomach is sour and his limbs have millstones shackled to them. He gasps like a fish dropped on the deck of a ship- churning on high waves. Restrained by blackened fingers round his throat, a shiv hooks into his abdomen and he is gutted.

Mutsuki blinks through the salt stinging his eye, and all preception of his reality inverts.

 

　

"Where did they find the remains?"

"Abandoned meat processing warehouse, I won't be seeing the report anytime soon, but the paper says, and I quote: ' _Ghastly murder of young woman, found mutilated by meandering youth... causes of death speculated to be either asphyxiation or massive blood loss'._ Says she was found lynched but not hanging."

"So'd that would 'ntail she was strangled by tha killers' own weight pull'n her?"

"...(...)"

"Perhaps, we won't know for certain until the Coroner has a peek at her but... It seems she was murdered like that young man a few months ago, lots of premeditated lacerations on the thighs and near major artery's. Whoever it is prefers to bleed them out."

"That victim also was near strangled and revived multiple times... We should've been patrolling last night, instead of sitting on out arses (could of been promoted by now if not for you dead-heads)."

"Ease off, it states right here the body was speculated at least two days old, so technically you where patrolling, so it wouldn't of-" Haise pauses, there is the chime of a bell. "Ah! That must be the letterman."

His shoes rap across wood flooring.

"Who'd you think's doin' it?"

"A man, _obviously._ You'd have to be large or very strong to attack and lynch another bloke with your own force ( you're too hung-over to be turning your gears this early)."

"Makes sense, I s'pose..." There is the sound of a news paper being folded. "Should we wake Mutsuki up now?"

"... Sasaki said to leave him be. (God knows what he got into)."

"Saiko's word is he had a panic attack right after lay'n his hand and then bolted."

Noiselessness.

_I'm not dead then. I feel like I'm going to die._

"He's look'n real sad in that state. Maybe he'd rest better without all that cotton cling'n ta 'em."

"PArdon--uhg." Mutsuki huffs out, flipping over on the stiff lounge like it hurts him. His guts climb into his throat. "I'm quite... quite..."

Right on cue Urie none too gently kicks a tin bucket within Mutsuki's grasp and he hastily empties his sickness in it. Several moments of muffled wet panting seems to ensure Mutsuki won't be puking, at least for the moment and he glances over the edge.

It seems his company has left, Shirazu because he'd already hung-over and Urie, mostly likely because overhearing him was rather disgusting. A shame washes over Mutsuki and he wipes his chin on his sleeve.

What on earth happened? He takes a moment to regain his wits: He's home, laying in the Study, its daylight outside -noon- Mutsuki can assume because its bright enough to hurt whether his eye is open or skewed shut. His hair is sticking to his temple and cheeks, rigid with dried sweat along with the elastic of his eye patch.

He remembers the pub's basement and the dead faces and the panic that is still coursing his spine. A fearful realization breeches him, his waistcoat has been removed, and his buttoned dress shirt is un-tucked along with being quite filthy.

That bothers him immensely, to the degree that his face returns into the bucket and he retches through another bout nausea.

"Mutsuki? Ah..." Sasaki slips in and shoulders the door closed. He rests a tea tray on the desk while Mutsuki mutters incoherently into the tin and if Haise finds it revolting, he doesn't show it.

Breathing slower now, Mutsuki raises his head and soils his sleeve once more. He's already flushed, so when he meets Sasaki's eyes he can't look any worse in his own opinion, but Sasaki gives nothing away with his expression, not even sympathy.

"Feeling better?" He asks monotone.

"I feel dreadful," Mutsuki try's to massage the ache from behind his eye with his knuckles. "How'd I get home?"

"Lets not get ahead of ourselves." Sasaki closes the tick fabric of the curtains over the window panes. Mutsuki audibly sighs in relief.

"We- Urie and myself, carried you back," Sasaki clarifies with pepper in his tone. "After a Samaritan hauled you out of the stairwell, passed out and disheveled."

Mutsuki shudders at the idea of being helpless under a strangers manipulation.

His words are strained. "...And my waistcoat?"

"Oh that? You ruined it when you-" Sasaki clears his throat and nods at the tin pail and its contents resting by Mutsuki's foot. "In the first furlong."

"I don't recall that..." Mutsuki squints.

"Hmmm. Yes. I've also been meaning to ask, what in bleeding saints is going on with you?" Sasaki demands with hushed urgency. "You're not yourself these days."

_I've not been myself since I was born Sasaki._

Mutsuki's body aches, his guts still writhing, head pulsing and foggy. Sasaki absently starts pacing in a circle.

"Family matters," Mutsuki says easily but apparently not loud enough for Sasaki to hear.

"You've been in that room for increasing hours, sorting through all manner of debris and writing letters to relatives who only want to- to _mock_ you!"

_Paper trails are real a threat to me Sasaki._

He's becoming a bit worked up, his pace turns to double time and Mutsuki would ponder this, had his mind not been dizzily raptured.

"I'm obliged to, as head of the estate." Mutsuki manages, not caring if the excuse reaches Haise.

"And I haven't witnessed you eat anythin' of sustenance n' days!" His speech mislays a bit of its culture.

_Its hard enough to hide Haise._

Mutsuki's never witnesses Sasaki so incensed before, so he just sits and wrings the hem of his shirt until his feet cease moving.

 

The square of his shoulders seem to relax when Mutsuki cautiously meets his gaze. Sasaki isn't as fragile as the mauve skin under his eyes but he's not made of iron either, despite his mouth is set in a steel line while he studies Mutsuki.

"T-this talk of you proposing to Saiko." Sasaki's gaze wanders off, his voice sounds dismantled.

Mutsuki is capable of that- he owes Sasaki an explanation. So when the room is no longer tipping over wildly, Mutsuki straightens his back properly and sucks a breath into his lungs.

"Haise, I - I'm--" And immediately he doubles over, snatching up the pail and vomiting into it.

"Bloody hell." Sasaki mutters, waiting patently for Mutsuki to trust himself enough to set the bucket down.

A tea cup is thrust under his nose, filled with some opaque steaming liquid.

Mutsuki peers up at him with watering eyes and gleaming spit-slick trails down his chin and Sasaki can't help but feel pity for the young man who's wealth can't save him from stress and sickness.

Sasaki plucks a handkerchief from his breast and tosses it over Mutsuki's demoted face. His tone was earnest and yielding.

"When you've drank it, there will be a warm bath waiting for you. Clean yourself up. You've got company."

 

 

 


	5. lunacy inter alia

 

 

After Mutsuki has freshened up and traded his clothes out for a clean assortment, he spends several long minutes tucking his shirt in and straightening his vest in front of the mirror.

The man in the reflection is ill from the attrition of his lifestyle, tired of hiding and dodging and only just shy of his twenties. Mutsuki thinks he looks older, not that he puts much faith in his eye at the moment, seeing as he still incredibly sensitive to motion and his vision has suffered since he has woken.

To the side, the sheer fabric on the day curtains ripple. Mutsuki swivels his head to see Saiko timidly standing by the doorway.

"Mut..." She says carefully. " I didn't know it would..."

He recalls the cigarette, and wonders if that was what fucked him up. Mutsuki chooses not to delve into that stream of thought, and tugs at the stiff rim on his collar.

"I'm easily indisposed anyway," He assures, offering a brief smile. "I apologize for creating a spectacle of myself."

Saiko frowns at Mutsuki, who rummages in the pockets of the trousers he wore the night before.

"Do you remember who had the better hand?" She asks. Mutsuki grunts, distracted by his hunt- where in the hell had his billfold ran off to?

He's misplaced them somewhere. Mutsuki fancies he hears someone playing the piano in the parlor and it doubles the feeling of foreboding.

"I don't even remember what I've done with my papers, much less my own poker hand."

"You lost. To four of a kind." She adds with little remorse. "You had two-pair."

Mutsuki's eye flickers to her for a split second, then back again to linger.

"Then why are you dressed like that?" He says with a disparaging tone he didn't intend.

"I've decided I owe you. So we'll call it truths." She takes the edges of her finest dress and does a proper curtsy. Mutsuki flushes, because in all the time he's been familiar with Saiko, he's never viewed her in such extravagant wardrobe. His eyes absorb her in entirety. Lovely powder blue silk, lace ruffles and ribbons in her hair.

He forces himself to look pleased, which is more complex that he initially thought- being acquainted with the barbaric and physically depressive design of gowns- all purely for convention.

"What? Y-you really don't have to, Saiko, really!- On my account, I lost fair and square,"

She sighs loudly, floating over to Mutsuki, grabbing his left hand and guides a silver ring into his finger.

"Really though as much as I cherish the thought of bein' asleep right now," She offers up her hand with a matching ring. "I do like to play games~"

Mutsuki smiles and gives her palm a slight squeeze.

　

In the hall, its obvious some person is playing the piano, and they're doing a scanty job at it, notes firing off in no deliberate order.

Entering the parlor, Mutsuki spies Urie first, compressed into the furnishing of the settee, issuing he had been selected to humor the company. Probably by Sasaki, who was nowhere to be seen.

Mutsuki then turns toward the maestro, who he initially believes to be an orphan set loose on the keys, but he hastily reevaluates his judgment.

Seated on the bench is a person, a young man- Mutsuki deduces from the his garb, but isn't entirely sure of his theory when the stranger lifts his chin away from tickling the ivories.

Mutsuki's mental process enters into impasse, perspiring beneath the strange person's gaze that flickers from his eye patch, to his eye and then back to his eye patch with a concentration that could set Mutsuki aflame.

Actually, he's pretty confident his whole face must be burning red by now.

"H-how do you do?" Mutsuki dices. "I'm Tooru Mutsuki; Welcome, I hope you've not been waiting long."

The visitor continues to stare at Mutsuki blankly, fingers still plinking away at the piano. Mutsuki blinks, a bead of sweat runs down his temple.

Saiko squeezes Mutsuki's arm she's been holding onto since leaving his quarters.

"Oh!" He clears his throat. "And this is Ms. Yonebayashi."

Another squeeze, this time with claw.

"T-to whom I'm engaged," Mutsuki quickly amends.

"Its a pleasure to meet you," Saiko presents her most demure smile and smooth curtsy, in which Mutsuki finds it hard to believe she is same person he played poker with the night prior.

Spontaneously generating in front of Saiko, the visitor loosely holds her wrist and busses the flat of her hand and in the same movement mimics Saiko's curtsy, peering up at Mutsuki who makes no attempt to hide his bewilderment.

"The pleasure is mine, Mademoiselle Yonebayashi." They speak at long last, voice a roaming alto with a minor slur which Mutsuki recognizes as French influence. "...Mutsuki."

Mutsuki must seem foolish gaping, but he has yet to muster the function to compose himself.

"I am Investigator Juuzou Suzuya, here on behalf of your Aunt, Mrs. Augusta," They step uncomfortably close to Mutsuki and clarify. "Who regrettably has fallen ill on the first leg of her journey."

"W-what a shame." Mutsuki feigns, discreetly inclining away from this- _Suzuya -_ who has imposed themselves directly into his personal space.

They stand roughly three inches shorter than Mutsuki but their eyes reach straight into his soul, daftly wide with madness lurking below the surface. Corruption and embellished candles behind stained glass clerestory.

"I've caught wind of the murders taking place nearby," Suzuya begins, backing away and rocking on their heels. " 'nother good reason to be in your company."

Mutsuki glances at the settee and finds it vacant.

"Shall we?" He offers, leading Saiko to the settee. She sits elegant and straight, probably because the ribs of the corset gouging into her.

Suzuya inspects the morris chair before dropping into it, brittle white-knuckled hands grip the armrests.

"So," They lean forward slightly, honing in on Mutsuki once more. "What, exactly, are ya?"

　

"P-pardon me?" Mutsuki flounders out, the color in his face ebbed and he was certain his heart may have imploded in his chest because of the painful surge of adrenaline biting his nerves.

He omits the compulsion to stand.

"Ya know, what's in your blood? Your family's background?" Suzuya speaks innocently and coils a finger in their suspenders.

Mutsuki's relieved he didn't jump to his feet for he would've passed out for certain. He does his best to calm himself.

"Um, well Grandfather met Grandmother in his travels in Paris," Mutsuki pinches the crease on the leg of his pants. "So Father was half English, half Japanese and Mother was-"

He is disgusted by his own hesitance. "Romani..."

Suzuya flops back into the chair, their curiosity sated for the minute. They wore a deadpan countenance while apparently doing silent, simple math on their fingers.

Mutsuki almost wonders what they're thinking.

 

"Sorry I took so long," Sasaki apologizes, setting a tray of kettle of newly brewed coffee upon a serving table and begins preparing the individual cups.

Mutsuki's shoulders relax when Sasaki enters the parlor. He feels Saiko's fingers pressing into his arm again. She is obviously ready to rid herself of the gown and more importantly the corset which is probably smothering her organs.

"Beg pardon while I escort Ms. Yonebayashi to her quarters." Mutsuki says, assisting Saiko to her feet. "She's in need of some repose."

"Gentlemen," She curtsies again, and follows behind Mutsuki retreating to the hall.

When they are at a safe distance, Saiko speaks up.

"He seems jus'a tad rabid, wouldn't you say?"

Mutsuki bites the inside of his cheek. "Peculiar indeed."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies if Suzuya ( and/or everyone) seems OOC, I had a strange time with them. :RE seems to have them balanced out more, so that's where I'm loosely characterizing them from.  
> Thank you for reading!


	6. knave with a single eye

 

There is buoyant laughter resonating from the pallor on Mutsuki's return.

"No- I have to disagree, that was not at all humorous." Sasaki's voice isn't as stern as he'd hoped.

"O' come on, it was a joke in the best of spirits!" Suzuya laces fingers in front of their mouth to hide a smile.

Sasaki appropriated Saiko's seat, his legs crossed and one foot twitching. Its certainly not out of annoyance, Mutsuki knows its more of a satisfied and giddy jitter.

"Hardly, I thought some bloke cut you seam to seam! And then in the daylight- dear God- It took forever to wash the boiled beats of everything!"

Mutsuki has not the slightest notion of what the pair are speaking about, so he quietly makes for the serving table and pours himself coffee, idly eavesdropping on the abstraction of their talk.

"Its has been a few seasons since I've last had the pleasure of your company, and I'll say you've not changed much." Sasaki pauses. "Well, correct me if I'm wrong- I mean you _have_ changed...in a reputable way."

Suzuya doesn't say anything right off, they just stare up at the ceiling for a spell and then their gaze falls back to Sasaki adjoined by a ghost of a smile.

"You 'ave changed too. You've gotten taller and you look like a gaffer from the back."

Before Sasaki can process the insult, Suzuya rutches round in their chair and extends an empty cup towards Mutsuki. He looks at them dumbfounded.

"More, eh?" They blink, dark lashes and frail veins behind their eyes.

"Uh?-Oh! Yes, of course!" He flushes miserably again, complying and ever-so thankful to face away from them. "How do you take it?"

"Three cubes and cream~ much obliged." They singsong, and Mutsuki can feel his ears burning.

 

"There are no suspects. Yet." Sasaki is desperate to sound hopeful as the conversation becomes darker in nature.

"Witnesses?" Suzuya takes a drink and their eyes dart to Mutsuki who's just sat down on the settee next to Sasaki. "- This is very good!"

Not quite knowing how to appraise their compliment, Mutsuki is complacent to avoid eye contact.

"None that can offer us a clear description. Urie and Shirazu have been watchmen for the past two months and we've gotten no leads from our informant." Sasaki says, shifting through a orderly stack of papers and news clippings.

"You're cooperating with the local constable?" Suzuya asks. "No, wait never you mind that. Hmmm, who is fund'n you?"

Mutsuki is frowning into his coffee, swirling it around in his cup in deliberation. This talk of gruesome murders has his stomach unaligned and he wonder if the coffee is plotting against him.

At some point he senses eyes on him and glances up.

"Yes?"

"Do ya actively patrol or otherwise participate in this investigation?" Suzuya shifts in their seat to examine Mutsuki.

"Well, I ... don't suppose--" Mutsuki twists the fabric of his vest.

"He suffers from illness and certain phobias that are commonplace in this hunt." Sasaki interrupts casually, and something like relief sweeps over Mutsuki's face.

"Is that why you offer your inheritance?" They inquire brusquely. Mutsuki feels a stab hidden in that question, so he squares his shoulders and speaks in a deeper tone.

"If you are insinuating that I'm wasting good money on a lost cause, you are mistaken. To fund this- this free-lance operation means more to me than turn' it over to the same constable who failed n' finding the murders of my--"

Mutsuki's throat closes up, and wishes he didn't become so easily flustered. He hastily composes himself, hands atop his knees.

_Get yourself together._

"If my associates' have the knowledge and will to put a stop to these atrocities, I will aid in any way I can. They're my family now, and I will support them. If you are assisting us in this, then I will support you as well." He speaks in slow clear syllables.

The expression that plays over Sasaki's face is made up of several indistinguishable emotions and in contrast, Suzuya's face is blank like fresh parchment, their eyes boring into Mutsuki's and he withstands it without fidgeting.

He sets his jaw, determined to hold gaze even though his guts are inverting. He must appear strong. _Strong like brother_. Mutsuki's hands are tense and ashen.

Suzuya's reply is a simple noise of affirmation.

"Haise, m' taking these," Suzuya lifts the stack of news paper clippings and information, peering at Sasaki from underneath the bulk. "You don't mind, do ya?"

"Not at all, it would be wise to review them." Sasaki rises shrugging the stiffness from his shoulders. "There is comfortable desk in the guest room, I'll show you to it."

Mutsuki notes how particularly broad Sasaki's back is next to Suzuya's as they retreat down the hall.

He can still feel the phantom of Suzuya's stare on his skin, prickling and unreachable in his nerves, coursing along his spine into the base of his skull- palpating numbness.

What did his Aunt desire to know so badly? This person - _Suzuya_ \- was on a different tier compared to Urie, Shirazu and yes, even Sasaki's intuition. Something in their composition was synthetic and disturbing, just below the fluid of their eyes- a paradox.

There was a iron jawed trap hidden amongst the formalities and Mutsuki would have to be vigilant, lest he have to amputate a limb.

Sinking into the upholstery of the settee, Mutsuki squints at the sunlight screening in past the day curtain like its an intruder.

Supper's preparation was never like in the morning, Sasaki arbitrarily would correlate the meal times with the households schedule and of course it was apt to flux with the comings and goings of members.

Mutsuki didn't participate this evening, feeling worn and achy, he dolefully navigated the coolness of the annexes, listening to the voices echoing off the walls until his door closed them off and he submerges in the comfort of his bed.

 

 


	7. cauterize lest it unravel

 

Seeing no particular reason to embroil himself with Suzuya, for the next two days Mutsuki went about his own business in isolation.

His father's Study was his personal retreat and he fancies himself to sit at the desk in the curl of the massive leather chair with no other compulsion than purely _because_ \- but today Mutsuki tediously reviews manuscripts and letters from another decade.

He filters through documents with purpose. If its legally important, he keeps it and files it.

Relatively personal letters to his family are recorded in a bulky journal and logged away and anything pertaining to himself or his brother is neatly stacked on the corner of the desk.

Most of the material he has already acquainted himself with but he always takes the initiative to re-read them again for sake of closure.

A corner of familiar stationary peeks out from assortment. Mutsuki plucks it free and breathes in the scrawl.

_My Dearest Tooru_

_I hope this letter finds you at a time when your studies are not too trifling and that you may find the time to read it without academics rushing you._

_I'm comforted in knowing you are not alone as your parents anniversary grows closer, please request Urie or Shirazu accompany you to place flowers in my absence, even though the days have been long and calm, I still sense something dreadful lurking about and its constantly crawling along my spine. Even if you're a grown man, you're my family still and hopefully Urie and Shirazu's sentiments to our brotherhood are mutual._

_My time aboard the HMS Innsmouth has invoked more bouts of seasickness than pleasantries. After the sixth day I finally was able to hold onto the rail without heaving over the port-side._

_The moment I touched French soil I almost wept with joy. It is warm here for February weather. I am enthralled by the language and literature and plan on spending many day researching, and traversing the city with aid from a young man I've befriended overnight in a faubourg who fancied he could lift my bag. He speaks of strange things, intelligent banter fraught with conspiracy and at other times, abstract concepts like he's brains been boiled but he is otherwise quite charming. He says there are rumors of a revolution at hand, in which I'm not sure I'd want to be caught in the midst of._

_Please excuse the brevity of this letter, I must send it off tonight if it is to arrive in the next few weeks. I'll hoard books in the interim for you when I return._

_Do take care,_

_Haise_

 

It was only a few years old- the last letter Sasaki sent after deporting, and the last Mutsuki would hear from him for ten irredeemable months. His fingers close tightly onto the letterhead, wrinkling the paper. That doesn't matter anymore. Sasaki is here, no longer suffering from fugue and Alive.

_Alive..._

He slumps into the chair when he's done- _finally_ done.

Mutsuki glances at the stack of letters for a long moment. He yanks open one of the desk draws which has become warped over the seasons and fishes out a letter.

It has been opened a hundred times, and the edges of the paper are worn. He unfolds the parchment, recognizing the squashed handwriting of his brother in between the illegible damage from water running the ink. Ignoring the name that doesn't belong to him, he skims over it.

_'One lost... ...remarkably painful despite all efforts... ... I am relieved and burdened by the strictness of.... ...but he is fair, unlike a handful of sailors I quarter with... ...The docks of our country harbor more ill intent than the coolies I embarked with under our Captain's command.'_

There is a stiff square still hidden in the envelope. Mutsuki swears he can still smell the ocean on it and the floor beneath him rocks as would a ships bow cutting through foaming waves.

Its a small oil portrait of his mother, done my memory by his brother in his spare time on board the warship.

Its not the only painting of his mother, there are quite a few tucked away in the various closet, but this one is special because it is her. Not like the patron's paintings that portrayed her looking horribly pale and weary, this small piece of canvas reflected the richness of her heritage.

Mutsuki could see past the canvas and feel her pain, the loss of self being forced to assimilate into a culture that was ugly and cruel. Mutsuki vividly remembers father's shadow embracing her, the sole comfort in the brutality of their death.

He slips the canvas back into the drawer and gathers up the stack along with his brother's letter included and crouches by the mouth of the fireplace.

Mutsuki repeats to himself a mantra ingrained into his memory, scattering the papers over half-burned logs and strikes a match on the floor.

 _Sār mush must jāl to the cangry, yeck divvus or the waver_.

Flame degrades the paper, throwing a bit of ash out onto Mutsuki's knees. He watches, basking in the vermillion hues at their peak, devouring all evidence in feverous heat.

 _Sār mush must jāl to the cangry, yeck divvus or the waver_.

The fire gutters and hisses, starving once glutted on the papers and the last flames collapse on themselves. Mutsuki returns to the drawer, filling a small glass with brandy and dipping his head back. The only chaser available is the peppered and pungent sent of smoke.

 _Sār mush must jāl to the cangry, yeck divvus or the waver_.*

Every man must go to the church ( and be buried ) some day or other.

 

 

Fueled by a hunger brandy cannot sedate, Mutsuki begrudgingly migrates to the kitchen and the clamor that infests in it.

He inhales a great lungful of stale air and puts his focus on walking in a straight line in hope no one pays him any heed.

"Certainly he'd have to tote a hunting blade! There is simply no other way to lacerate that depth!"

Sasaki is sitting at the table, reviewing what looks like a coroners report with Shirazu reading over his shoulder. Urie is in his usual chair- the one closest to the door. Mutsuki checks him in his peripheral but dares not make eye contact.

"No, not 'n theory!" It is Suzuya standing by the table with their back to Mutsuki, thin shoulders draped with a oversized shirt and rolled sleeves that must belong to anyone but them.

Sneaking past them, Mutsuki nabs a semi-stale biscuit from a covered bowl, turning on his heels and is about halfway to the hall when a pair of hands grab the sides of his arms.

"You're beyond late, come sit!" And with a force Mutsuki didn't except from them, Suzuya guides him to an empty seat.

He nervously glances around to find all sets of eyes on him. He sets the lone biscuit on the table.

"G'morning..." Mutsuki sighs. Haise raises an eyebrow rather suspiciously.

"Now, as I was saying~" Suzuya begins again. "A blade, yes, but it wouldn't 'ave to be a skinning knife, it could jus' of easily been a whittling blade."

"How'd ya mean?" Shirazu asks with a skeptical tone. This seems to please Suzuya immensely, they stride across the kitchen tile and pucks a corkscrew from the counter.

"Lets say a blade 'bout the length of this," They wave it round a bit. " Three inches of blade or possibly less could do the job an' be easily concealed."

Sasaki nods, but the doubt still showing on Shirazu's face.

Mutsuki does his best to dematerialize when Suzuya's eyes are back upon him.

"For instance..."

They're surveying Mutsuki's face, eyes crawling down to his legs that are firmly rooted on the floor.

 _What're you thinking..._ Mutsuki sees a glimpse of that madness again, though quite disheartening when its directed at him.

"The femoral artery lies on the inside of the thigh, 'bout right - _Pardon me_ \- here,"

Suzuya leans down and slaps the palm of their hand firmly on Mutsuki's mid-leg.

He flinches, but stays rigidly still, eye fixed on the hand so pale the blue mangle of veins stands out even more and Mutsuki wonders for a spilt second if there is any blood in their body at all.

"The artery itself is only 'bout two inches below the fleshy parts." Their hands, though small, encompass the better half of Mutsuki's inner thigh, pointer and middle fingers pressing into his muscle with no withheld roughness.

Its not a good feeling, having somebody palpate for a pulse in the sensitive part of a body's leg, to be frank, it fucking hurts.

Mutsuki suppresses a noise, sucking a gasp through clinched teeth.

"Make that one 'n a half inches," They correct themselves, dark curious eyes flickering up to meet Mutsuki's one for a brief moment before their fingers are replaced by the cold metal of the corkscrew.

"The murder could easily bleed his victims with a whittlin' knife, hell- this would work quite nicely if Mutsuki was incapacitated."

His leg is starting to go numb from the pressure applied from the corkscrew, tingling agony and needles straight into his leg.

Mutsuki knows his face is probably flushed, but he hopes it's also ugly and contorted when Suzuya looks at him again.

"I think we understand the concept now," Sasaki speaks up, looking queerly flustered himself.

"So lets focus our search from findin' the murder weapon and start investigating the body-dumping areas," Suzuya drops the corkscrew onto Mutsuki's lap and whips around to face the others. " When will ya be out watching next?"

"Our shift starts tomorrow night." Urie says, looking unremarkable as usual.

"Excellent, lets all form inta divisions and patrol near the last three dump'n sights. Mutsuki, you should come t-" Suzuya offers, but Mutsuki's chair is empty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Sār mush must jāl to the cangry, yeck divvus or the waver.*  
> *Every man must go to the church ( and be buried ) some day or other.
> 
> that phrase I referenced from the source below:  
> English Gipsies and Their Language, by Charles G. Leland, [1874], at sacred-texts.com


	8. terribly corpse colored

 

Musuki has never in his entire life received a letter like it. It only bore his name, scratched out in bold lines by some media relative to a grease pen and was easily smudged.

Inside was a single paper with a inked drawing - or perhaps a stamp from a woodcut because of its organization- of a spiral rope, coiling into the center was a knotted noose.

If that wasn't enough to turn Mutsuki's guts inside-out, along the twists of the rope was splotched of something that wasn't ink, three individually spaced, growing close to the middle where the last blotch was smack in the gape of the noose.

"Its blood." Sasaki concludes after Mutsuki shakily passes the paper to him. "When did this arrive?"

"It was given to me while I was out this morning," Mutsuki mutters, feeling lightheaded.

He grips the edge of his desk to ensure if he blacked out, he won't go falling backwards.

" Was out to purchase a new penning quill and a child came up to me with it. Said I dropped it from my pocket..."

The Study was absurdly frigid, even after nurturing a fire it remained that way.

When Mutsuki ventured out after coffee that morning, the rain didn't bother him but now it's presence made his skin feel even more clammy, turning to gooseflesh when he shivered.

"That doesn't make a lick of sense..." Sasaki mumbles, still studying the letter. "But this is definitely an unspoken threat. What did the child look like?"

"Just the run of the mill gamin, he was all filth and grime ... so I gave him my handkerchief..." Mutsuki's breath is shallow in his lungs.

Sasaki knows the child's role was the middle-man, and from Mutsuki's degrading posture, he's aware as well. Sasaki goes about folding the letter.

"Did you see anyone suspicious?"

Mutsuki makes no indication he even heard him, his one eye glassy and fixed on the fire place, crackling and spitting.

"Is there anyone who you would consider an enemy?" Sasaki says a bit louder, stepping closer to Mutsuki who has yet to tear his gaze from across the room.

 _How would one define an enemy?_ Mutsuki thinks entranced by the flames.

_How do you expect to distinguish an enemy from the general population._

_How do I pick out the one individual that intends to kill me out of the hundreds that only wish I would die?_

 

"S'a nice place you've got here. This was Daddy's, right?" Suzuya says, voice hollowed out by the high ceiling.

Mutsuki swivels his head around to glare at them.

Charcoal hair, too long because its in their eyes- too dark for their skin. It makes them look terribly corpse-colored, all cold tones and washed out bruises.

"I believe this is a serious threat Mutsuki received today." Sasaki informs Suzuya while they delicately examine the letter and no one says anything in the interim that's not nervous fidgeting.

 

"Do ya like symbolism? I like symbolism." They spout after a gross amount of time, moving to hold the letter open only inches from Mutsuki's face, who flinches, leaning back more over the desk.

"What would ya call this?" Suzuya asks, pressing forward so Mutsuki gets a _really_ good look, close enough to see the gleam of the dried blood, flaking like brown rust.

"D-disgusting," Mutsuki huffs, hand over his mouth and other across his abdomen. He swears he can smell the blood and his stomach flips.

"Nope! Don't shield yourself from it! It's not threat to ya,"

They break face to simper.

"Well, I mean, it _is a threat_ , but the letter itself isn't going to lynch ya. Try again."

Mutsuki begins to sweat, trapped and desperate, darting his eye over to Sasaki to convey his misery.

"Juuzou." Sasaki drawls. Suzuya's house slippers scuff on the dry wooden floors.

"Hmm," They sigh, retracting the letter from Mutsuki's sight. "What this is, is a promise, an' a serious one at that."

Mutsuki fetters his gaze to Suzuya's. Their face is composed but their eyes are fervid and alive under glass- eyes like pocket watches, ticking mechanically, driven by something more complex.

"Serious enough to be sealed in blood." They add, turning on a dime to be engulfed by the shadow of the hallway.

There is a strange rhythm to their footsteps, Mutsuki notices and he looks over to Sasaki, who in return looks at him.

 

Evening time brings a cold unusual for the month but luckily the rain ebbed to a light drizzle by night fall. The streets are inky and waterlogged, pollution from the paper mill mixes with fog and settles over most of the valley.

Mutsuki holds his lantern close to his chest, wishing it wasn't so useless in the elements. When he thought about it, he supposed he was rather useless in this situation too, so at least there was some comradely between them.

"Lets not burn oil unless we need to," Sasaki strolled out of the fog, with Urie and Shirazu tailing behind him. "Our advantage will be using darkness for our benefit."

Shirazu looks to be in awe of an epiphany, in fact its probably never crossed his mind to use anything to his advantage. On the contrary, Urie is bitterly compliant for the duration they're a group, but once he's alone with pawns he can manipulate, its his game and everything is his gain.

"Where's Suzuya?"

Mutsuki shrugs but nobody can see him.

"He better not be lolligagging 'n pitchn' pence."

"That (loon) Juuzou did agree to do this tonight. The clock will strike before we make it out there at this rate..." Urie pauses. "Go fetch him, Mutsuki."

"Umm," He rambles. "Very well."

 

Suzuya is there in the parlor.

"W-we're all standing by." Mutsuki approaches. "Shirazu and Urie are growing quite impa-"

They glance at him, right leg up on the settee with the hem of their baggy trousers rolled up to a point that could easily be criminal.

Mutsuki first spies a scar on their upper thigh, partially covered with belts and buckles and the rest of the limb down into the shoe looks polished and synthetic.

He squints in the dimness of the room. Oh. That's because _it is_ synthetic. He whirls around, not sure if his delayed embarrassment has stemmed from their show indecency or his own.

"B-beg pardon, I'll be outside with the o-others." Mutsuki stutters, grabbing two fistfuls of his coat, lantern's handle looped on his wrist.

"S'no issue." Suzuya says in a small hushed voice. "We're the _same_ , are we not?"

Mutsuki shuffles uncomfortably, looking over his shoulder at Suzuya who was sheathing some objects resembling knives into the void of their prosthetic.

 _Are we?_ He is stricken silent by the pointed, yet vague query of their statement.

Perhaps they are correct. In a world of roles and labels and judgment, with sharp-edged black and white, maybe they were the gray-scale.

Lost in his head, Mutsuki stares vapidly at the stone floor.

 _So that is how you know so much_.

　

"Arn't ya a little soft t' be doin stuff like this?" Shirazu can't just walk and keep his mouth to himself, whether Mutsuki agrees with him or not.

"Mutsuki has received a death threat and we're not about to leave him unattended." Sasaki rescues.

"I've reason ta believe that the threat may directly be associated to this string of murders." Suzuya chimes in, their steps paced well with the group despite their handicap.

"What do you mean?"

"Reviewin' the articles and coroner reports, I'm begging to see a pattern among the victims and the ways they are murdered in relation to race."

Footfalls merge together into a symphony in the gap of eerie quiet that hangs over them.

Suzuya continues by their own volition.

"Its just a theory. This murder is extremely unhinged an' aggressive. The reports speak for themselves an' I'd wager he bleeds them out because he's prejudice against foreigners."

"Prejudice against their bloodlines..." Sasaki murmurs in deep contemplation.

"That (is ridiculous enough to) makes sense."

Not instilled with courage by the pragmatism of the topic, Mutsuki falls behind the procession. His unlit lantern pendulates as he walks, brass hinges squeaking in tempo.

What are his chances? He's made it this far, living as his brother, evading the same fate the whole of his family met and has even managed to find a 'bride'.

He wonders, thumbing the silver ring on his finger, how long Suzuya will be around and if Saiko can hold through to the end. Its flimsy façade already, nobody _really_ believed him when he confirmed the rumor- except for Sasaki, acting more personally wounded than skeptical.

Hell, Mutsuki find it difficult to accept that Suzuya hasn't seen through it all. They're not as dumb as they appear.

He shouldn't fret so much. At this rate, he's more likely to be murdered than spend days staring at white walls in an asylum, which shouldn't be as blithe of a relief as he regarded it.

There is no one left to disappoint anymore.

Its so dark, Mutsuki can't tell if his eye is open or closed.

 

 


	9. river in the road

 

They split into two parties near the docks to cover more ground, Urie and Shirazu heading North under Suzuya's instruction. Sasaki and Mutsuki stayed together with Suzuya to patrol along the Southern portion.

Moving closer to the sea only made the fog more dense, seeping though the buildings lining the coast. It was everything Mutsuki could do to keep the broad of Sasaki's back in his view while they wandered onward.

The timbre of the sea traveled inland, the static of waves slapping against stone and creaking of watercraft shifting on the tide. It was quite eerie to listen to in the profound stillness of the surrounding town.

He overhears Suzuya speaking something to Haise, who responds in smothered French. It doesn't seem important judging from their tone but Mutsuki can't help but be curious as they volley to and fro. It would make sense, he decided, that Suzuya previously met Sasaki in his travels.

There was a time Sasaki went away after completing his schooling -to France he had said proudly- to see the Sainte Chapelle and sun bleached coastline. Even now, Mutsuki still wondered if that was a contrived lie. Shortly after, he boarded a ship with a royal title and vanished.

Then one day he generated upon Mutsuki's doorstep. His clothes stiff with salt and sun baked colors, and his hair... His cheeks raw from the wind, still dimpled when he smiled, but his eyes were listless and red-rimmed. He never talked about his travels, his only souvenirs were a rust colored bayonet adhesied in one hand and blood-shod feet. Mutsuki swallowed his horror and worry, kept his distance and slowly Sasaki began to acclimatize back into the former being he used to be, sealing his wounds with impasto.

 

"How're you holding up?" Sasaki asked, his figure barely visible in the swirling fog.

"Perfectly." Mutsuki responded. It was actually the opposite, he was fatigued and sordidly cold. He kept imagining his nose was running when it indeed was not.

They slowed their pace coming upon a dock-side bar, bustling with seamen and a fair amount of women displaying their intoxication publicly in the street. A flock cut Suzuya off, crowding close to them with drunken brashness.

"Oh she's jus' precious!" One woman cooed, "Aren't ya a little young t' be out past the toll?"

"It's dangerous to be all alone in these parts..." Another said, running a hand down the length of Suzuya's sleeve.

It had to have been entertaining to them, for Suzuya didn't seem to be bothered by any of it. They stood wearing the most gullible expression Mutsuki had ever witnessed, allowing the strange women to enthusiastically sweep them into the bar.

"He's got to have a reason," Sasaki said, noticing the unsavory look etched into Mutsuki's face. "I'll have you know Suzuya has impeccable instincts. That's to be expected, I suppose when you've been raised by a murderer."

"What?" Mutsuki leans closer like he's been drawn by the ear, intrigued.

Sasaki quickly glances over his shoulder. "One of the most famous serial killers in Lancashire."

He pauses to brush his bangs out of his eyes. "Suzuya was indentured to her for many years before he fled to Paris. A terrible and depraved Lady, I don't know of the details, but Suzuya's got legions of scars striped all over his person and apparently he doesn't feel pai--"

"No more. Thank you, but I don't wish to hear anymore." Mutsuki's interest curdles and the aftertaste is copper ore sticking to his lips with the shame of gossip.  

 

The two of them shift awkwardly in front of the door.

 

"I'll go in and fetch him, are you...?"

"I shall wait out here." Mutsuki says courtly. He certainly won't be venturing into that place.

"Right." Sasaki slipped into the turmoil with great repose, the door wafting the stale stench of ale into Mutsuki's face. He moves out of the doors immediate proximity so he doesn't become nauseous.

He waited in silence, watching the clouds shift in the atmosphere like curtains in front of the moons glow.

 

Mutsuki can't shake the sensation that he's being audited. He caulks it up to paranoia, until he hears something move on wet stone on his right side- his blind side. He spins around, attempting to remain calm.

Of course there is nobody there, not a soul. He squints into the darkness just to be thorough, regulating his breathing.

This is a sea port... He knows the ocean deceptively close- Mutsuki can still hear the waves frothing and pounding on the dorks, just on the other side of the bar and he'd be a fool to think the ocean wouldn't call his name.

The sounds of voices inside the bar become louder, buoyant laughing and singing. Mutsuki imagines it must stink, all of those drunken, perspiring bodies packed into a space like that, but he almost wants to go inside to escape the feeling he's being stalked.

He panorams over the street again, and turns swiftly to sneak into the door-

There is a man standing directly in his path. Mutsuki saw his face for only a second but, he is educated enough to recognize blood in his eyes.

A million nerves fire bullets in his brain tissue, and lightning tears down his central nervous system, commanding him to react. Flight or fight.

Mutsuki downplays his fears by disguising them with a weak laugh.

"Oh, e-excuse me- I didn't see you there." He scrambles to collect in his deepest voice, stepping backwards.

The man steps forward. Mutsuki's eye dart to his polished shoe, that is gleaming wet with a substance other than oil. Bolting back up just in time to see a large hand closing in on his face, Mutsuki lets the adrenaline dictate his actions.

His lantern explodes on the street, glass scattering in all directions.

He feels sticky fingertips graze his cheek, knees buckle and he falls. Instead of landing flat on his back, Mutsuki curves his spine, using the kinetic energy to roll onto his shoulders and knees- upright, on his feet in a mere moment.

 _Where do I go where do I go wheredoIrun?_ His brain toils, the shadowy man is still too close to the bar for him to get inside. He glances about the street wildly, instinct overriding his logic.

 _Just RUN_.

And Mutsuki does, rapidly. Heavy footfalls follow him. He impulsively cuts down the first dusky alley across the street, hoping there is an outlet.

 

He doesn't make it but a few strides when he looses footing and greets the brick lined street with his knees and palms. It smarts terribly, Mutsuki curses aloud and rises back up, but his foot slides in something wet. He momentarily forgets his pursuer and looks at his shaking hands.

At first he mistakes it for mud, but then a creeping realization sinks into his bones.

The clouds part and the first quarter moon is bright, illuminating the alley and the bloodless corpse slumped beside Mutsuki.

 _Oh. I'm on my knees in someone's blood._ His brain isn't functioning properly, and it takes many pounding heartbeats to detain him.

His chest is expanding, then contracting and he is aware of the air being forced out of his lungs but he unable to hear it.

Mutsuki's eye is fixed to the corpse's bulging wide dead ones, blue lipped and open mouthed with _that_ noose sunk into its flesh, neck twisted in unnatural fashion.

New panic slices through him, frenzied prey instinct to escape drives him to stand again, trousers clinging to his lower legs and filthy.

Mutsuki dashes to a short iron fence, pulling himself over the iron spears and over, feeling his clothes catch on a barb and rip. He lands on his feet poorly, toppling over from the fire shooting up his limbs.

He writhes on the ground, panting and his skin burning. Rolling over onto his back, he feels hot numbness spreading from his hip and he gropes around shredded material blindly until one of his fingers slips into a sopping cavity.

The sudden intensity of searing pain is surreal, and Mutsuki cannot take it anymore. He doubles over, his body seized by agony so strong he thinks he _will_ die.

Wavering in and out of unconsciousness, Mutsuki feels himself being grabbed around the chest and propped up, someone's muffled voice yelling.

Mutsuki thinks he deserves to be yelled at.

 

 _A ship. I'm onboard a ship at the ocean's mercy_.

Mutsuki's body lurches. Not unlike the feeling of rolling waves, but it isn't.

He's laying on something stiff, head lolling with the drumming of hooves.

He strains to open his eyes. There is a lantern swinging on a hook above him, he's in a carriage, and not a nice one either. Paper crinkles under his weight as he shifts, and its cemented to the side of his face.

"Mmm, on't ove so mut."

Suzuya is kneeling over him, a glass syringe sitting between their teeth and white cloth strung between both hands. Mutsuki can smell pungent antiseptic hanging in the air.

"Ya woke up in time for the good part." They say, drawing clear liquid into the syringe. "...Haven't seen a pair of surgical scissors, ave' ya?"

"Wh-" Mutsuki breathes. "Where is Haise?"

"He stayed behind with Urie and Shirazu." They chirped, "Analyzing the scene n' filling out reports. Don't worry, you'll ave' your fair share."

Mutsuki unsteadily lifted his head to see his shirt was rolled up his last rib, stained and partially shredded. He blinks.

Now would be a convenient time for hysteria but Mutsuki has no combative strength left in him. Besides, it was by his own doing that he was in this plight. He feels peculiar in regards to this whole situation.

Perhaps... Suzuya is still unaware.

"Um-"

"I'm gonna to need ya to lay on your side." Suzuya interjected, hands hovering over Mutsuki's left shoulder and knee waiting to assist if need be.

Mutsuki takes a deep breath that makes his ribs ache. Every muscle in his anatomy felt torn in half- which is likely the truth. He rocks onto his right shoulder and is met with painful resistance that extracts a groan.

Suzuya aids in pivoting him in a suitable position to ease Mutsuki's exertion. They douse a square of cloth with antiseptic and start wiping the blood encrusted around Mutsuki's hip, tugging his trouser waist down a little to get better access.

The alcohol steals away his body heat, and a shiver travels up his spine. Mutsuki presses his face into the side of his arm and that is when he realizes his eye patch is gone.

"Y-you took off my- my!" He stutters.

Suzuya doesn't look away from their task, but a smile quirks at their lips.

"Yeah, imagine the disappointment discovering noth'n was under there." They sigh. "Mmm, chew on this."

They toss a billfold at Mutsuki, and he identifies it as his own that went missing a week ago- the evening before Suzuya arrived at the Manor.

They knew. He didn't have a chance- it was inevitable and now...

Mutsuki's body jack-knifes, what feels like red-hot iron and embers packed into his flesh incites a cry so feral that Suzuya jolts with surprise. The stream of antiseptic bends and breaks over Mutsuki's skin, overflowing red out of the irritated gash.

"We've got t' clean it out, or else ya could die." Suzuya doesn't sound extremely perturbed, firm hand on Mutsuki's knee to keep him from flailing.

The pain is agonizing, but has reached its threshold, leaving Mutsuki gasping shallow, seething breaths. They staunch the wound with sterile gauze, tightly wrapping bandages around Mutsuki's side.

The carriage clatters onward. Suzuya takes a sip out of a small glass bottle, then holds it out to Mutsuki. He doesn't contemplate the contents, downing a mouthful and its smooth fire with an aftertaste like anesthetic.

Mutsuki realizes he must have bit his lip, because its smarting something terrible.

Suzuya places all the equipment into a black leather case, and slouch against a large duffle of mail in the corner.

He rouses himself to sit up with aid from the liquor and steadies himself against the side of the carriage.

There is a second of stillness buffered between the shaking of the carriage and symphony of hackney hooves.

 

Mutsuki's feeling rather bitter at this point, bruised and ill. Its his own fault, he understands that. but coupled with the sensation of exposure is propagating madness in a very primal part of his brain.

"Auntie will be pleased, won't she?" He asks, arms across his lap. "To have my identity discovered. I'll be declared insane and locked away. Then she gets what she wants and you get paid, hm?"

Suzuya toes off one of their shoes and arches their foot. They're staring at the lantern on the hook, waltzing shadows and blood in the lines of their hands.

Since they say nothing, Mutsuki keeps on with a petulant air.

"I had a gut feeling you knew something. Now I guess there is no reason for me to lie anymore. I've never been fond of it anyway- not fond enough to be decent at it, at least."

Mutsuki's hands wind into the tattered fabric of his shirt corners. His thoughts boiling inside his skull and words aimlessly slip out, leaking like spoonful's of greymatter out of his ears with no other orthodox means to contain it.

"I guess this is what divine retribution is. I never deserved what I have, but I'd rather be dead than-"

"Mmm, you're still feverish." Suzuya says abruptly, crouched shoeless in front of Mutsuki, tepid hand on his brow. "I'd be careful 'bout what I'd say, yeah?"

"B-but-" Mutsuki must be deranged, are they telling him not to incriminate himself?  Who are they loyal to, exactly? That's not entirely fair, to play that card. Immediate guilt settles into his chest and it feels like pneumonia.

"I shouldn't 'ave made you come along with us."

Mutsuki is dead in the water. He is utterly nonplussed and is reduced to ashes by the morose of their eyes, worn and sunken like the mortality of war ships.

Suzuya produces the eye patch from their person. Delicately slipping the band around Mutsuki's head, situating the patch over his right eye and sliding their pinkie along the pliant material so the band is flush with the curve of his face.

The fever must be the reason Mutsuki's cheeks are so warm. A bead of sweat trails down his neck.

"You're almost home." Suzuya unapologetically lifts Mutsuki's shirt to heed the bandage. Its soaked through. "When you arrive, 'ave Saiko run you a cool bath n' clean up. I trust you know 'ow ta dress a wound?"

Mutsuki nodded, inducing a mild bought of vertigo. He was beginning to suffer the affects of his blood loss.

"Take this," They set the black medical bag beside Mutsuki. "In case ya need it, there is loaded revolver at the bottom of the case. 'Ave you ever operated a gun?"

"Yes." Mutsuki wraps his fingers around the case's handle.

"We'll be back 'round dawn. Don't wait up for us." They force a fraction of a smile, lifting their sleeve to wipe the streak of blood from the swell of Mutsuki's lip.

 

Their eyes hold his, Mutsuki can't look away.

Now he can't settle on feeling betrayed, indebted or sick from shock. He just exists- bloody and sweating and dying a bit every day. Like every body else.

He notes the color of Suzuya's irises are the same as dried blood stains on his own clothes. It makes the aubergine smears around their sockets more prominent.

Some indistinct emotion impels him, and resisting the ache of his body, he slopes forward and affixes his lips to Suzuya's in a buss.

Mutsuki tilts his chin up, his mouth tangent on theirs. Noses brush and then Mutsuki shrinks back, feeling shameful about his decision.

His lip stings from the contact.

Suzuya sways as the carriage halts. Their expression is impermeable and rather void, only their eyes are a little wider than previous.

"I- I... Thank you," Mutsuki grits out, hauling himself to his feet and stumbling out of the mail carriage.

 


	10. inexplicable is verbatim

 

Its no surprise that Saiko isn't around at this hour. The manor is empty, vacuous space swallowing Mutsuki's footsteps as he limps through the dark halls by candle light.

He started a fire under the boiler and went about sloughing off his clothes, using the ruined garments as tinder. He unlaced his corset binder, which was a slow going task with his trembling hands.

Waiting for the water to heat was tortuous in the frigid air of the washroom, which was really a stone outcrop attached to the manor that very plainly used to be a smokehouse and even meat hooks still hung in the corner.

Mutsuki used the light of the fire to examine his wound, unraveling the wrappings and eyeing the gauze half stuck to his skin. He really, really didn't think it would be a scholar idea to pull it off at the moment and risk re-opening his would. It was still grieving fluid, the muscle hemming it was inflexible and hot, and it screamed blue murder with every move he made.

He shivered. Mutsuki looked down at himself, gaunt limbs and rich pigmented flesh striped with pale scars and...

Attributes.

He didn't want it.

It's not who he was. It's not how he thought-certainly not how he wanted to be treated.

_Lips together, jaw apart. Hood your eyes and cross stitch a mask onto your face, just like that. Now sit like a doll, encased in those metal hoops and hold your tongue._

_Best to learn that now, your voice, nor desires, are not of importance. Maintain the image._

Mutsuki didn't want to exist...

Like _that_.

_What is in my head is often misunderstood._

Why did it have be so bloody impossible to live? He was exhausted.

Moving automatically to and fro, until the tub was filled, Mutsuki eased into it, body displacing some water that spilled over the edges.

It didn't concern him that the temperature was a little too hot, or that when the water broke over his wound it felt like a boxer's cuff straight into his nerves.

He went slack, his face just above the surface. He could feel the reverberations of his fingernails tapping the sides of the copper tub in his head. Like hammers falling onto nails piercing through flesh, and for mankind, hung up in the abbey.

Mutsuki thought about what he did in the carriage. He could pretend it never happened. He certainly didn't love himself any more for acting so foolish and impusively.

There was something distilled about Suzuya, something beyond their physical appearance, some form of sympathy that wasn't judgmental or pity.

Maybe it was empathy. That they new about Mutsuki's charades and didn't once expose him.

It was strange how threat of Suzuya's knowledge- a loaded pistol pillowed against his skull was soothing. And even though he shouldn't trust them...

Did he really trust them?

Did he trust them any more than he trusted Haise?

Sasaki, clueless and honestly genuine. What would he think if, no-- _when_ he found out?

Although sometimes, early in the mornings Mutsuki would sit opposite of Sasaki in front on the fireplace, penning stationary in designated straight-backed chairs and even in the weak light of the kerosene lanterns he would glance up and catch Sasaki's dewed gaze that still persisted un-bashfully though returned.

Like he _knew_. Maybe.

Mutsuki never quite knew what it meant or how he felt about it, other than a crawling sensation that could be classified as uneasiness- however not entirely, but the silence following such he had memorized lack of verbatim.

Now re-dressed in slightly oversized clothes in need of a belt, Mutsuki closed up the medical bag, satisfied with his own attempt at bandaging himself.

Outside it's still dark, but veiled by the fog is a crisp line of light towards the east horizon.

 

 

One wouldn't need to have impeccable investigative skills to know immediately something had gone amiss. Glass was strewn about under the parlor window, reflecting shards of overcast dawn. Suzuya tried the door handle. It was still locked.

Sasaki was already making way around the back of the manor to the only rear entrance near the wash room. Sasaki faltered upon seeing the narrow door way agape.

Suzuya pressed forward, knife ready in their hand, dangerously composed and not a sound emanated from them. Their eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness inside, surveying the rooms as they turned each corner.

The absolute silence of the manor was haunting, so noiseless in fact that Sasaki imagined he had lost his hearing altogether.

Approaching the hallway, the stench of gun power was overpowering. Suzuya saw Mutsuki's door ajar, and as they neared it, their foot kicked something solid that skittered over the stone floor.

To their disgust it was the revolver. Sasaki collected it, rolling the chamber and emptying the shells into his hand.

"...Cold." Sasaki thought out loud, shuffling the brass around in his palm like dice.

 

Spreading the evening curtains did little to lighten the parlor.

Sasaki glanced at Suzuya, who was poised atop the lid of the piano, solemnizing the room.

"Mutsuki b'came frightened and left." Suzuya finally spoke, stepping down from the bench.

"Frightened?" Sasaki repeated.

"You've noticed how neat everythin' is?" They gestured about the room vaguely. "No blood, no struggle. He took off."

Sasaki mulled this probability around in his head, glancing over at the window pane that was broken and much too tiny for a body to pass through.

"So someone was hunting him." Sasaki turns in a semi-circle, fingers woven into his hair. "It was the same _person_ who sent him that horrid letter, was it not?"

To no astonishment, Suzuya had already summoned the letter from their person and was securitizing it between pinched fingers.

Sasaki doesn't say ' _murderer_ ' because then he would be admitting aloud that Mutsuki's fate was predestined. He wants to believe otherwise. Sasaki doesn't intend to deteriorate back into the stony, unfeeling husk of a person, molded from days of chasing flies off his friends from behind the barricades and the smell of septicemia.

They remained in that way for a few long suspenseful minutes that the grandfather clock's ticking only perpetuates.

"Haise, reload that Colt if ya'would." They ask with a smile- well, less of a smile and more of a thin-lipped promise on the fringe of lunacy.

 

 


	11. bleeding saints forsooth

 

"Its interesting, your brother only had lovely things to say about you."

_Brother? Brother has been gone for six years, I think. Six years definitely. Five years older, six years departed and no report was filled._

"Of course, I always had my prejudice, but now I can say for certain you were both gypsy wretches."

Mutsuki's brow twitches, its hard to determine if his eyes are open or not. He can't feel his arms, but he's confident his nose is running though. A repulsive smell reaches him and he gags.

"Especially you, disgusting little _schlampe_! Did you think you could preform the duties of a man?"

A rough hand collars his neck, squeezing his throat. Mutsuki rasps, unable to escape while fabric grazes across his lips. It stinks sweetly like ether and he holds his lungs until its withdrawn.

"So clever~" The voice praises. Mutsuki is pulled forward by his throat like an animal, and doubled over with an unbearable weight transferred between his scapula's.

The violence of this shove dispatches his face straight into the bend of his knee cap.

Its then he feels blood circulating back into his bound arms that he's apparently been laying on for a variable amount of time, and it almost aches to the degree that his face does. There is heat spreading across the bridge of his nose.

"Isn't it grace that you will die rather than be locked up for your hysterical delusions? I'm cleansing this filthy town of a creature the likes of you."

Mutsuki's arms are unusable and painfully numb. He's hit with blind vertigo when he's upright again, someone tugging vigorously on his dead limbs and for all he knows its a wolf gnawing them off.

"Now lets see those pretty eyes." One quick motion and Mutsuki's vision is restored. He's in a large warehouse with windows up high on the walls glowing in the early morning, he concludes, but he could be deceived by how terrifically his head is spinning.

His body is caved against stacked brick and arms are stretch out on either side, fashioned to jutting pipes. A stream of blood glides over Mutsuki's lips from his nose. There is no confusion because he can taste it.

He blinks up at a figure looming over him, tall with wide shoulders, but its too murky to see the face of the disembodied voice.

"W-where..." Mutsuki forgoes his question. His head rolls off his shoulder and droops as his surrounding pitch. He feels to sick and lethargic to even be scared by this... devil.

"Can't you tell? You have two eyes, is that still not enough?"

The devil cackles, pacing the floor in lazy strides. Mutsuki's brain is a heap of oxidized gears, his vision is turning kaleidoscopic every time he moves, so he tarries idle and stares at the eye patch discarded across his leg. Sanguine drips off his chin and blemishes his trousers.

"Your dear brother, loosing that eye in the worst of ways. I genuinely felt pity on him." Smooth sugared voice drawls on. "And when I first laid eyes on you, I though he had rose from the grave! You look so much alike!"

"Did..." Mutsuki doesn't look up. "Did you...murder him?"

There is a pause. The buildings metal architecture groans like its sentient.

"I don't remember. You must understand, it been so long! And I've been out at sea dreading the filth I'd have to clean up on my return to Pembroke."

Mutsuki pulls his knees up, his bare feet seeded on the dirty floor to keep his surroundings from whirling. He sucks in a shallow breath.

"You're a bloody liar!" Mutsuki spits, his voice wavering. "A sodding mad-man! I want to know! W-why did you take him away!"

"I told you, I don't remember _crushing_ him. Only our time out at sea and his pitiful, proud flesh."

Seemingly impervious to Mutsuki's words, the devil laughs, kicking Mutsuki's ankle's together. The polished leather of his shoe shines, even in the minimal light.

"Undignified, absolutely undignified and un-lady like. Men will get the wrong idea if you sit so coquettishly."

"Stop it! Stop calling me that..." Mutsuki chokes out through the blood draining into his throat from his sinuses.

Another laugh, it echoes through out the warehouse.

"Have you looked at yourself?" He sneers, dropping something heavy on Mutsuki's lap.

Mutsuki reflexively swallows a mouthful of blood, wide eyes fixed on bulging orbs that stared back at him, dead and de-fleshed. Congealed, slotted pupils sat in the decapitated head, colored ashen pink and blue under layers of sticky fascia. He could see into the sheep's wide nasal cavity, opaque juices flowing over a single row of teeth.

Mutsuki's wrists held fast to their tethers but he couldn't hold his fortitude any longer. He lurched forward and retched, strings of saliva and blood clinging to his jaw.

More bubbling laughter in the background while Mutsuki coughed. His hair is stuck to the sides of his face with moisture when he lifts his head.

"What a mess," The devil purrs, removing the sheep head and gingerly tossing it over his shoulder. The meaty crack of its skull on concrete echoes.

The shadowed figure moves very close, and Mutsuki can see some details of a masculine elongated face, and a rather symmetrical in what could be considered a pleasing way, although his wolfish teeth ruined it.

He traces a finger from Mutsuki's collarbone to the nape of his neck and Mutsuki tries to duck away, but his hair is caught in a fist, pulling his head back with enough intensity that his vertebrae re-align.

"Tsk," He scolds, wiping the red spit winding down Mutsuki's chin. "No manners."

Mutsuki can feel hot breath prickling the skin on his throat and he grinds his teeth.

"Thank you for this, by the way~" The devil holds up Mutsuki's now stained handkerchief, his initials decorated in one corner.

He recalls the young child on the street he gave the cloth to, the innocent pawn. A sudden violent and seething rage boils out of Mutsuki, completely unfamiliar to him.

"You're a monster," Mutsuki hisses, lashing out a leg with as much power as he could gather, and catching the devil man in the gut. He stumbles backward.

The satisfaction is fleeting.

A thick braid of sailing rope whips across his face in retaliation, and its texture is sand paper and road rash on his cheek.

_Oh fuck._

"That was brash of you, _mecker liese_." He sounds winded and beyond murderous now.

Mutsuki's eyes are bleary from the sear of the rope, his right eye in particular feels like a thousand needles have been implanted into it. Something hot that isn't tears dribbles along his cheek.

"It was a pleasure." The devil man says coldly, looping a noose over Mutsuki's head and tightening the rope over a fixture on the wall, not enough to strangle, but just enough pressure to incite panic.

Squirming and straining against his wrists hard enough to dislocate his shoulders, Mutsuki does forsooth panic.

" _Haise_!" He grates instinctively, thrashing unrequited until exhaustion prevails over him and he crumbles.

Coughing, with real tears overflowing, he hopes these aren't the circumstances in which his brother died- he thinks with surprising clarity above the desperation.

"S-suzuya...!"

_Save me._

Perhaps, this was the solution. Freedom from this world- this hell. Mutsuki's last will and testament has long ago been assembled.

 _Sār mush must jāl to the cangry, yeck divvus or the waver_.

 _Every man must go to the church ( and be buried ) some day or other_.

Mutsuki feels icy metal touch the fleshy part of his arm, its a shaving razor. Its fearfully sharp, and leaves a thin slice on the fleshy part of his arm beading with red.

Without any hesitation its on his wrist, flush against the veins and tendons. Mutsuki screws his eyes shut.

_And maybe at last, I will see my family again..._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how accurate the German phrases I used are.  
> In order of appearance:  
> schlampe = bitch (technical: female dog)  
> mecker liese = annoying woman 
> 
> Yes, the murder is an 'original' character, and not Tsukiyama Shuu or Kanae, but I'm using the Rosewald name because, well, it seemed appropriate. What a mess.  
> Thank you for reading!


	12. war ships and split wrists

 

A church bell knells nearby. Mutsuki hears an abrupt grunt, and the scuffling of shoes.

He opens his eye, dust is billowing in new illumination, arching from the ajar doors of the warehouse.

Mutsuki now can see the insides of gutted hogs, halved and in a row on the far wall. Meat hooks dangling like wind chimes, bending light around them and casting contours behind them.

But of course he would be murdered in a slaughterhouse.

Through haze Mutsuki can see the devilish man has been enslaved and crooked backwards by none other than Suzuya, who is standing on the tips of their toes, one arm locked around his neck.

They twist to a different angle in the struggle. Suzuya's blade is lanced in his ribs to the hilt.

 

"Suzuya..!" Mutsuki almost cries, a glimmer of optimism is revived in him and he accesses his options.

Mutsuki's left wrist is slick with blood, so he rotates the whole of his arm to saturate the thong by strumming his wound under the leather cords.

It fucking hurts. He spews a pain laden list of profanity, intermittently breaking into dry rasping sobs and then back to dizzily toiling.

 

In fiery opposition the man hooks his body forward and capsizes them flat on their back. Mutsuki cringes when Suzuya's skull bounces off the floor.

The man dives upon them, using his mass to pin Suzuya's lower limbs immobile and bereave their arms from them.

"And who are you, _kleine ratte_?" The Man huffs, his features squashed in pain and fury.

Suzuya doesn't move, they just blink up at the man with an apathetic expression that Mutsuki's not sure if they're feigning.

" _Hündin_ , I asked you a question!" The man growls. Suzuya's face is porcelain, eyes wide and knave.

"I know who _you_ are, Rosewald." They wry their neck, looking real daggers at him. "A waste of reproductive fluids and a fuck'n pig. You're nothing."

Without saying anything, the murderer outstretches Suzuya's right arm and pirouettes it delicately like a cylinder in a music box.

When he meets muscle resistance cueing their arm is incapable of turning anymore, he ferociously wrenches it further.

 

The peal of bone sundering incites a shriek from Mutsuki, and he yanks one wrist free of the leather binding that has became pliable from the wetness of his blood.

The noose is hastily removed, but Mutsuki cannot untie the knotted cord entrapping his other limb. His fingers have lost their dexterity and are agonizingly numb.

Mutsuki swallows a whimper, and resigns himself, squeezing his wrist between his thighs to staunch the bleeding.

_Worthless._

_I'm worthless._

_Why are they risking their life and limbs for me?_

Mutsuki blinks the moisture out of a single eye, the other throbbing, swollen and caked with drying blood. Colors in his vision are rippling waves of white noise.

 

"Why don't you scream?!" The mad man demands, cruelly bending Suzuya's limp, mangled arm once more and dropping it.

"B'cause it doesn't hurt none." They purl in a eerie sedated tone.

" _Verdammt sollst du sein_!"

In one liquid motion, like the crack of a whip, Suzuya's wrung arm produces another blade out of empty space, and sweeps it across the mans throat.

He recoils, both hands slapping to protect his neck just a second too late.

Suzuya, no longer hemmed down, vaults onto their feet with unbelievable agility. The man makes bubbling strangle of a noise and staggers away as Suzuya largos toward him, their eyes are focused like iron-sights.

The corner's of their mouth twitch up into a grin, launching leg into the murderer's chest that sends them colliding into a metal vat that promptly tips over and a cascade of red water and viscera splash around them. It floods around Suzuya's ankles, licking at his skin.

The man has fallen.

 

Mutsuki's body feels like he has melted into bathybius, gelatinous and sagged against the bricks. The tide of innards ebbs, retreating to the drain nearby. His hand still pressed between his knees.

Suzuya's shoes make squelching sounds as they draw closer, seeping out gore with each step. They stand over him, countenance null and arm dangling by their side.

 

"H-hello," Is the first word Mutsuki's brain elects as appropriate for the circumstances.

His head bobs to glance up at Suzuya, and does his best to cultivate a smile despite the soreness of his cheek but is fruitless in his attempts.

He fancies he must look like absolute hell, and his brain is pounding like its cleaving into halves.

They settle onto their knees, cutting the bindings on Mutsuki's snared arm with their strange blade and gently peels his other wrist away from his legs.

The skin is agitated and red but it has stopped bleeding and is now weeping a clear fluid. Suzuya tears a clean portion of their shirt off and wraps it taut around the wound.

 

Mutsuki can only observe them as they work, his body feels weightless and freezing cold, but he isn't shivering.

Suzuya's fractured arm was ever-so-slightly tumid and made a disgusting crunching sound when they pulled the fabric into a knot, but their fingers retain their strength.

"I've never felt this sod-awful," Mutsuki sighs. "...I'm so tired."

Suzuya palpates their own arm quietly.

The morning light plays with the shadows in the slaughterhouse, the swine carcasses rock on the hooks, and that damned sheep head is blinking at him from across the floor.

 Unless Mutsuki's hallucinating it, that is- and it would make more sense, right? Because it doesn't have any eyelids.

He's too tired to be in shock.

Maybe he dreamt up the whole of these horrid events and his mother will brush a soft hand across his copper toned cheek to wake him.

He bites the inside of his lip.

The skin on Suzuya's forearm almost seems to be transparent in the hour's illumination, whip-wire tendons and cords of contracting muscle...And again, Mutsuki thinks he may be hallucinating but he doesn't mind this so much.

Mutsuki doesn't mind at all, actually.

"Where's Haise?" Mutsuki's lost in the rafters above him, particles of dust intermingle in the sunlight.

"He'll be here soon." Suzuya responds at last. Mutsuki swears he can feel their voice trickling across his skin.

"...Did you kill him?" Mutsuki asks, staring at the static of colors inverting, tilting and rolling lazily like water

" Maybe." Suzuya said easily.

 

"And what of me?"

Mutsuki slides his eye up to look at them from his position propped up against their ribs.

He is in awe of his own ignorance in regards to how he ended up with the bloody side of his face plastered against Suzuya's shirt.

Silence drapes like a burial cloth.

"Why are you looking out for me?" Mutsuki mutters, tilting his chin up to see better through his misplaced screen of sweat soaked hair.

Suzuya makes a small humming sound that's louder in Mutsuki's skull.

"B'cause we're the same." They tell Mutsuki's ear and in a unpolished show of kindness, tries to wipe away a bit of blood on Mutsuki's jaw but only succeeds in smearing more on him.

"Gray..." Mutsuki whispers absently, eye crawling from the bend of Suzuya's neck, and fixing onto their own pupils, yawning black planets rolling in the lustre of red sea.

 

For the second time in his life, Mutsuki's lip stings but it's not unbearable nor regrettable at all.

 

Mutsuki abides by the doctrine that each person has their own reality, and no person’s realities are the same because of the unique trials the individuals face brand and scar them throughout their existence.

In his own case, Mutsuki had lived in an uncomfortable reality that was never his to procure, but he earned the right to title it as his own.

In a game of cards dealt by ridged black and white, Mutsuki bluffed and found solace in the company of the gray in between.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German phrases in order of appearance:  
> kleine ratte - little rat  
> Verdammt sollst du sein - damn you 
> 
> I didn't know what to call the murder, so excuse my wishy-washy handles for him. Suzuya figured out his name from a naval ship's manifest from an officer in the Pembroke dockside bar when they returned after dropping Mutsuki off.  
> Saiko probably went back to the local pub rather than be alone in the manor, I wanted to give her a larger role but I'm not even sure if I did her justice to begin with.


	13. drowned and revived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an epilogue of sorts, because I neglected some serious stuff. Plus thirteen's a good number.

 

_Dear Lady Augusta_

_I suppose you've waited long enough for a letter, well now you shall have it._

_News of you travels coming to an abrupt stop has dampened my spirits, but the investigator sent in your stead has more than benefitted us in our hunt._

_I hope your illness has alleviated with the change of seasons, but if it has not, perhaps it would be in your favor to cease reading and ignore the rest of this letter, lest it stress you unnecessarily. I hope I will remain in the uppermost of your good graces._

_My company and I have managed fairly well, despite my reoccurring anemia and overall unstable physical condition. Though now I am currently bed-ridden, my thoughts are rolling and rushing in my head but it pains me I cannot lavish on the details. It might be haughty for me to say, but I think Pembroke and its surrounding districts are a great deal safer today, than in the last ten years._

_J. R. Rosewald was responsible for over fourteen deaths in, and around Pembroke, most of them immigrants and persons on mixed heritage. It was because of Suzuya's superb investigative skills, and the chance happening of them finding a Ship Manifest log on a dry-docked Naval Officer, that we caught Rosewald. Though its been difficult to place value on one man's life, I feel we have been bargained well and people will not suffer because of his derangement._

_The murderer's last words were of value, revealing where five undiscovered bodies are laid. They real tempest will be identifying them. He died shortly after confessing, his wounds too great for his body to bear. I'm preparing myself for the reality that one of the corpses could be my beloved sister, though my hope is that she made voyage rather, than fall into the dreadful hands of this murderer._

_We will continue our efforts._

_If you do find the time and health to travel, our doors will be open to you._

_Your nephew,_

_Tooru Mutsuki_

 

"Ahem."

Suzuya swivels around to face Mutsuki, standing- no, teetering a few paces away. His shirt is wrinkled and unkempt, along with his trousers, hems gathered around his ankles and in desperate need of tailoring.

"Why are you reading my letters?" He asks politely, but not sweetly looming over the once organized desk, that now looks like a battleground of receipts, loose papers and obscure phrases in strange languages, with scribbles and smears that subjectively could be art.

Suzuya lays the stationary down and smoothes out with a hum.

"Why are you up and walk'n around? Are you _drunk_?" They ask instead, eyes gleaming. Mutsuki clears his throat.

"T-the doctor sai--"

"The Doctor," Sasaki interjects, walking swiftly across the Persian rug with the day's news rolled up tight in one hand. "Said that, _you_ , Suzuya, had a fractured radius and partial dislocation of the wrist."

He jabs the newspaper at Suzuya, who smiles.

"Don't look so coy, you're supposed to be resting. Don't force my hand either or, I'll send for Detective Shinohara to come and educate you while you recover."

Suzuya's expression sours. Mutsuki almost grins, but the notion is quickly vanquished when Sasaki turns the news paper at him.

"And my dear Tooru, who is miraculously standing here despite being severely anemic, with two fearful lacerations, and a wound perpetuating an already maimed eye,"

Mutsuki sways, feeling very trivial, dizzy and a bit guilty.

"Just because you've been prescribed Laudanum doesn't mean you're alright to be wandering around as you please. You're bed ridden, if I do recall." Sasaki lowers his arm as Mutsuki drops his gaze to the floor.

"Go back to your room and I'll find some suitable books for you to entertain." Sasaki adds softly. The aura around him is bright and warm like sun dried linen.

Its so bizarre to witness Sasaki being strict. There is not a severe cord in his body, but this is not the occasion to test him.

So Mutsuki nods, shuffling out of the study obediently.

 

* * *

 

　

The ceiling is moving, polished with light pollution from outside the curtains, crawling and dancing. Mutsuki wonders if he is lucid, or if these colors are from the morphine boiling out of his ears and eye and evaporating into salt.

He hears mismatching footsteps rambling closer from the hall. Mutsuki blinks.

"That letter. It was very cordial."

Suzuya flops onto the other side of the bed, their arm wrapped up in a sling, saluting across their chest.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Mutsuki sighs. He wouldn't be an ass directly to his Aunt, despite her sod-awful personality and ethics.

"Jus' surprised is all..." They give him a side-long glance. "You really did pay that doctor a pretty pence, mm?"

He can feel the stitches near his hip pulling tight on his skin with each deep breath. He's so very numb, like a lukewarm bath. He's floating and he's sinking. The ceiling glows and ripples like water.

Mutsuki's not sure what to say, because its obvious. Its all blatantly transparent to them, to the point that its rather callous for Suzuya to bring it up as inquiry.

"You know why."

And he's absolutely sure they do.

Knowing _they know_ bleeds his brain. A conversion of two parts crippling anxiety and one part something strong like liquor. Mutsuki wants to drink it down and cough up his guts.

He wants God to steal it all back. He wants to bid them farewell. He wants to be drowned and revived as another. He wants them to bloody the letter opener and smear it onto his cheeks. He wants to crumble like cold ash in the fireplace, brittle between their fingers.

Mutsuki doesn't know what he wants.

"Mmm, well. You can't gag everyone."

Mutsuki awkwardly shifts onto his shoulder to face them, the plush of the mattress threatening to swallow both of them up. His expression is dull, besides looking morbid in general. Bruises stony across the bridge of his nose, a subconjunctival hemorrhage in the eye that's not locked down with bandages.

"I'd rather offer hush money than be arrested." His voice starts flat but wavers ever-so-slightly as he is reminded of how in vain his efforts could be. "This is all I have, this burden was mine when i decided, and I... I don't want to loose sight of who I am or the people I care for. What's the point of living, if I can't..."

Mutsuki curbs his tongue.

He wants to be torn apart and stitched back together.

Suzuya is quiet for a moment, entranced with the blood trapped in his eye, creeping across the sclera and touching the dark parts if his iris.

"I understand."

"You do."

Suzuya rolls onto their elbows. Mutsuki observes the curious saturation of their eyes, dilated, unyielding sanguine that runs like melted wax down their face.

They stifle Mutsuki's anxieties with the fondness of their lips, his bevy of doubts coated in syrup and the curve of their mouth.

Such a simple, whimsical hum parts from their throat and they exhale whispers over his hazel cheeks. Suzuya bends their neck, charcoal bangs slip across Mutsuki's eyelid, and over his bruises, and he's lost in the sensation of the ocean pulling sand from under his feet.

Then somehow he is lying supine again, with bloodless lips and rose petals between his teeth.

The colors blending above him are intoxicated and restless in the suspension of time that Mutsuki has no grasp on. He breathes.

"Do ya want to hear a story?" Suzuya asks, back in their own space, legs crossed and foot twitching.

"...Haise is bringing books."

"This is tons more interesting. Have you ever been to Lancashire?"

"I don't believe I ever had the privilege. "

"Ah, well, my earliest memories are of a place called Pendle Hill."

"Is...Is this going to be a sad story?"

"Perhaps. But don't worry, it has a delightful ending."

"...Really now." Mutsuki smiles.

A single stack of books is abandoned on the nesting table in the hall, and a kettle's scream escapes past the cobwebs, tangling with laughter from the parlor and amble of Suzuya's voice.

 

 


End file.
